


Afterimage

by lostboywriting



Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You
Genre: Angst, Joshua does not really do healthy relationships, M/M, Neither does Hanekoma honestly, Possibly-abusive dynamics, Post-Game, Slice of Life, TWEWYTOBER 2018
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2019-08-03 03:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 30,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16318673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostboywriting/pseuds/lostboywriting
Summary: Neku still knows what he saw, once, but as time goes on he can’t help wondering if it was anything more than a trick of the light.(IN WHICH: Neku has ghost problems, goes to Paris, and gets some new perspectives - Rhyme is far more levelheaded than misbehaving cats or Composers deserve - Shiki and Eri are the only people here who actually have their shit together - Mr. H should really leave both metaphors and mentorships to other people - andifJoshua gets punched in the face it will definitely be because he's a selfless martyr suffering for the sake of the people he cares about and not because he's done anything to deserve it.One of the above is a lie.Guess which one.)





	1. Haunted

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of short pieces written from @retwewy’s TWEWYtober 2018 prompt list on tumblr (though, erm, obviously it didn't get finished in October. Whoops.) There _is_ in fact an overarching plot here; trust me, I was as surprised when that happened as anyone.
> 
> Spoilers for the main game abound, but this diverges from canon prior to A New Day, so no spoilers for the new content.

Neku's gotten kind of used to it: coming back to his apartment to find his stuff rearranged, and his closet full of clothes that he didn't buy and wouldn't choose to wear but are now, apparently, his. It doesn't happen often, but it happens often enough that he's extra careful about who he brings home. Most people think he's joking when he says his place is haunted.

One day about a year ago Neku left a shopping list half-finished on his desk; he came back five minutes later to find _bulletproof vest_ added in a neat, elegant script. He rolled his eyes at it, picked up his pen, and jotted down _restraining order_ just beneath it, but in the days that followed he caught himself leaving other bits of writing unfinished, setting them down casually like half-open doors. Not invitations, because Joshua's like a reverse vampire: he never turns up when Neku invites him. But—opportunities, maybe.

Joshua didn't take any of them, because of course he didn't.

Sometimes Neku wishes that Joshua would just talk to him like a halfway normal person, and then he remembers that talking to Joshua is _really fucking irritating_ , and he doesn't. Some things don't change, even after years, and he suspects that's one of them. And anyway, it's never going to happen. Neku's mostly resigned himself to that, these days.

But then there are days—as now—when Neku walks into his place and promptly trips over the edge of a godawful lime-green rug covered in geometric patterns, which wasn't there yesterday and which he would not personally have elected to install unless it was the only way to resolve a hostage situation. He regains his balance, sets his backpack down, stares around the room with eyebrows raised, and then says, deadpan, "Oh. Wow. You shouldn't have."

And a part of him wishes that he wasn't imagining the answering chuckle.


	2. Orange

Then there's the stuff Neku's not sure about, if it really happens or if his brain just makes shit up sometimes to keep itself from getting bored. Like this one:

He's sitting in a cafe, bent over his tablet working on a commission, when something clatters on the floor nearby. He automatically ducks his head to look for it, and freezes.

Sitting by his foot is an old flip phone, years out of date. Its cover is scuffed as if it's been dropped before, a lot harder, on pavement.

It's bright orange.

The world lurches, bright and cold against his skin and in the corners of his vision. His heartbeat thuds in his skull. This is it, isn't it? He's going to look up and Joshua's going to be sitting at the next table over, a wicked light in his eyes and a casual, crooked grin on his face like it's only been a few days instead of—how many years now?

_Neku, if you could see the look on your face…_

He's going to look up—but he can't tear his gaze off the phone, and he tries to breathe steadily, tries to relax his shoulders and unclench his jaw. He's always told himself he's not going to freeze up again, if it comes down to it. 

(Because face it, if Joshua is here, Neku's life expectancy has just gotten a hell of a lot shorter. Again. Joshua was never the sentimental type; he doesn't really do social calls, and the longer he goes without turning up in the flesh, the likelier it gets that if he _does_ , it'll be because he needs something. Neku has no illusions about how that one goes.

Which… is what it is. Neku shouldn't be okay with that, maybe; this isn't an era where it's fashionable to die for vain and disinterested gods. But he's never cared much about fashion, except when Shiki's talking, and if Joshua ever needs him dead again it won't matter a whole hell of a lot how he feels about it, anyway. So he might as well be okay with it.

He is okay with it, mostly, but he still really, really hates guns, with a sickening, stomach-churning passion.)

The seconds stretch out—one, two, three—and there's no quiet laugh, no amiable greeting. No soft _snick_ of a safety clicking off.

"Oh, there it went. Hey, man, toss that phone over here?"

Neku blinks and looks up. A boy in his teens, awkward and gangly in the uniform of one of the more prestigious local high schools, is peering at him and the phone from two tables over. Neku's never seen him before.

He looks back down at the phone. It's a smartphone, one of this year's models, shiny and black.The case has a thin line of orange piping around the edge, but that's it. He blinks a couple more times; it stays put. He picks it up and stands up to walk it over to the kid instead of throwing it across the room.

"Thanks," the boy says as he pockets it. "Don't know how it slid all the way over there." He starts to turn back to a pile of homework, then glances back, gives Neku an odd look. "Hey—you all right, there?"

Neku stares past him for a moment, out the cafe window, looking for—what?

He shakes himself out of it, turns away. "Yeah," he mutters, heading back to his seat. "Fine. Thought I saw… something weird, but it was just a trick of the light."

Orange piping on the phone case, he thinks, and a shiny screen. Maybe the color reflected just right, somehow, and he caught it at a weird angle, and thought—

Stupid to think Joshua would still have the same cell phone after so many years, anyway, he chides himself as he pulls the painting back up on his tablet. Joshua was never the sentimental type—not one to hold onto anything after it outlived its usefulness.

He'll just stay away from the orange section of his color palette until tomorrow, maybe.


	3. Afterlife

"Hey. Neku, right?"

He glances up from his sketchpad, where he's been doodling inspirations for a class project for the last hour. It's one of his classmates—Keiko, he thinks her name is, but he doesn't really know her. She's pretty quiet usually, at odds with her bright Harajuku outfits. "Yeah. Hi."

"I was wondering." She bites her lip. "Could I ask you some questions for my project? I'm—I wanted to, like—I thought it would be interesting to ask everyone in our class some questions, and do something off of their responses. They're kind of—maybe a little weird, though."

She's hovering uncertainly, papers clutched in front of her like a shield, and Neku smiles at her. "Weird's okay," he says. "Sure."

"Yeah?" She smiles back, hopeful. "They're maybe kind of personal, though."

"I mean, I don't promise I'll answer," Neku says. "That okay?"

"Yeah! Of course. Yeah. Thank you." She sets her papers down, pulls out a chair across from him, sits down, draws a breath as if she's about to plunge into the deep end of a pool. "Okay. Do you believe in an afterlife?"

A laugh startles out of Neku's throat. "Yeah," he says.

She blinks at him, her tone rising to a dubious note. "Really?"

"Yeah," he says. "Sorry, that laugh wasn't at you. Just startled me." He's not sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't that.

"Oh! Right. No, it's okay. Sorry, your answer startled me, too." Then she waves a hand in a way that reminds him a little of Shiki when she's flustered. "I mean, there's nothing wrong with it. I guess somehow I just hadn't figured you for—um. Sorry." She looks down, shuffles the papers in front of her.

Neku shrugs, faintly embarrassed. "Not a problem. It's not…" He stares at the ceiling for a moment. "I dunno, it's not a religious thing, I guess. Exactly." Though he guesses it isn't not a religious thing, if he's technical about it. He's met a god. He has faith in said god, despite the ever-accumulating piles of evidence that this is a terrible idea. He's been killed and resurrected by said god; that one definitely gets into some weird theological territory.

(One of his first-year art history courses spent a lot of time on old Western work, and there were a solid several centuries there where a lot of the surviving paintings were Christian, and very enthusiastic on the subject of martyrs dying horribly. That was a semester in which Neku took great pains not to lend his notes to anyone, because the last thing he needed was classmates asking him who Joshua was and why Neku had filled the margins with scribbled messages to him, most of them variations on a theme of _don't even fucking THINK about it._ )

She tilts her head, curious now, seeming a little more at ease from his own indifferent attitude. "What kind of thing is it, then? I mean, if it's okay to ask. Like—what do you believe?"

He lets out another laugh, this one quieter, and wonders if how he feels about this question— _knowing_ and full of wonder and entirely unable to tell her how funny it is that she's asking him this—is how Joshua feels all the time. "I think," he says, and runs a hand through his hair as he looks for an answer that's honest while also being vague enough to keep himself out of trouble. "I think I'm already there, some days."


	4. Candy

_Fall 2007:_

"Well?" Joshua, sprawled lazily on the couch in the Dead God's Pad, does not look up from his phone as Sanae's frequency drops into a perceptible range. "What did your cohort say?"

"Put it like this, boss." Sanae's drawl is slow and sardonic. "Imagine yourself as a kid in a candy store. Then assume you've already run out your allowance for the next ten years minimum." He waves his hand in the vague direction of a chair; it slides across the floor to him, and he sits down heavily. Genuinely tired, Joshua notes, if he's using psychokinesis for such a trivial thing. Sanae likes maintaining the illusion of humanity, even when there's no reason for him to do so.

Even when he's talking to the one person who knows perfectly damn well that it's a con.

Joshua's still not looking, but he can feel the angel's gaze boring into him, level and relentless. He sighs and goes on scrolling through pictures on his phone—not to look at them, but to make it clear he's not impressed. "All right. But does the internal logic of that actually hold up, Sanae? If I'm a child who's already gotten a ten-year advance on his allowance, then that's some incredibly permissive lending on someone's part. Given which, I rather suspect that I can go on getting away with things more or less indefinitely." Because if Sanae's going to be condescending about this, then Joshua's going to be finicky and pedantic and deliberately obtuse; there's really no other way. He glances up, flashes his Producer a smirk. "Otherwise, why would I still be in the store?"

"Because you're a kleptomaniac with a sweet tooth," Sanae says, and his tone holds all the warmth, easygoing amusement, and permissiveness of a brick.

Joshua lets out a soft huff of laughter and goes back to his phone. "Oh, I see."

"And there's no more _getting away with it,_ Joshua. Not for a day, not for a week, and definitely not _indefinitely_. You've drained Mummy and Daddy dearest's bank account. The loan sharks are circling."

"That sounds suspiciously like Mummy and Daddy's problem," Joshua says. Oh—there's a good photo of Neku, disgruntled and frilly in a rather fetchingly ridiculous dress from Lapin A, diving into the fray against a flock of raven Noise. Joshua flags it to send to the boy later, at some choice inopportune moment. 

(Assuming there is a later for Joshua. Assuming it's one in which he's allowed anywhere near Neku. He suspects that at least one of these assumptions cannot, at present, be made.)

Sanae snorts. "Regardless," he says, and Joshua notes that this is not a disagreement. "There's no more where it came from. And every shopkeeper in a hundred-kilometer radius knows it, and they're all watching you. Do you understand me?"

Joshua glances up, raises his brows. "Am I still in the candy store?"

"Josh—"

"Because that's a very big candy store, Sanae, and they must have very good eyesight. I think it's possible your metaphor might be getting a bit strained."

Sanae gives him a long, level look; Joshua ignores it, and tilts his head in consideration. "Points for taking it in some unexpected directions, though," he concedes. "I do hope poor Mummy and Daddy don't get treated too roughly by the loan sharks. Still, if they do, I expect they'll learn something from the experience. And this is what you talked about, was it? You and your collective?"

"Joshua," Sanae says, and his voice is quiet now, in a way Joshua knows is bordering on dangerous. "Put the phone down, sit up, and look at me."

 _Make me,_ Joshua almost says—would say, if not for the fact that he's still drained from the Game and its aftermath. A fight might do them both good. But there wouldn't be a fight, at present, no matter how tired Sanae is. There would just be Sanae saying, mildly, _Fine,_ and then slamming the phone out of Joshua's hand like a cat batting at a toy, and hauling Joshua up, fingers tipped in warning claws digging into his chin.

A month ago Joshua might have said it anyway, the mood he was in.

Now he goes still for a long, silent moment, considering this. Then he shuts his phone with a loud, deliberate _snap_ , returns it to his pocket, and sits up, folding his arms over his chest and meeting Sanae's eyes. "Well?"

"What I'm saying," his Producer says, still quiet, "and what you know perfectly damn well I'm saying, is this: where the Realground is concerned, for the forseeable future? You can look, all you want. But whatever the _hell_ you do, Joshua, you do not. Touch. Anything. Not without permission. You understand me?"

"Can I—"

"No." At Joshua's scowl, Sanae gives an unapologetic shrug. "Assume that the answer is no, boss. If you have to ask, it's a no. If you _think_ about asking, it's a no. If you're currently thinking any smartass things about asking forgiveness instead of permission, then I would strongly advise you not to, but it's your funeral. As it were."

Joshua looks away, purses his lips in irritation, tries not to feel like a scolded child. "And Neku?"

"What about him?"

"Can I at least—"

"Take a guess," Sanae says, and grins at him, amiable as ever. "You're gonna be hearing that _no_ for a while now, J. I suggest you get used to it."


	5. Weird

Yoshiya Kiryu, age 11, has cultivated a particular image very carefully: he's the weird kid. Not the kind of weird that would make him an easy target, drawing his classmates in like ravens to roadkill, but the kind of weird that leaves them all slowly edging backwards and eyeing each other nervously when he looks at them.

For starters, nobody really wants to be on the receiving end of one of his "visions." He'll drop his voice to a whisper when the teacher's out of hearing and tell them some stupid thing, like that they're being swarmed by giant frogs that feed on fear and anger and the souls of the dead. And of course that's ridiculous and nobody believes it—except he'll describe the frogs in vivid detail, a foot high or bigger with smooth sky-blue hides, covered in strikingly calligraphed patterns. And he’ll grin and go on: _Oh, there’s one climbing up your shirt, dangling off your arm, and another on your shoulder. Are you sure you don’t feel the cold? Its foot is on your neck. It’s got its nose just by your ear now and it’s flicking its tongue like it’s catching flies—_ until their skin is kind of crawling and they’re trying to pretend it’s not. And he'll do it with such calm, bored conviction that his classmates are uneasily certain he believes it.

And there's the way he has of looking at people as if they aren't quite worth looking at, his gaze wandering past their faces and settling on points just behind them, or over their shoulders, as if there's something much more interesting there.

Children being what they are, it has gotten him punched a few times, but they're all old enough to understand cause and effect here and do some basic pattern recognition, and… _things_ have… happened, a few times now, to the kids who've done it. In no way that anybody could ever blame on Kiryu, not in a way that an adult would understand, but they're all pretty sure at this point that it's his fault when someone who went after him on the playground two days ago has an embarrassing outburst at the top of their lungs in the middle of class today, or finds their homework scattered through with things that they can't remember putting in there and really shouldn't have done but that are, inexplicably, in their handwriting.

(They don't know how he does it, but the beauty of it from Yoshiya's perspective is that even if they did manage to do a bit of detective work, they'd end up with a ridiculous story about an eleven-year-old bribing dead people and shinigami to imprint psychic commands on his classmates, and really, what the hell would any of them do with that?)

So they mostly avoid him, and their avoidance mostly suits him. People are tedious at best, and they tend to give him what he thinks of as a Noisy headache. But sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—he wishes one of them _would_ do that detective work. And he really wishes they would try to tell someone—anyone—about it.

Just so that someone else could find out what it feels like to _know_ , and to know that they will never be believed.


	6. Monster

Shiki wishes she could tell Eri about the Game. Wishes she could tell her: _I've fought monsters now._ Wishes she could tell her she was kind of almost good at it, that it wasn't really as frightening as she would have thought. That in a weird way it was almost a relief to fight, that a part of her almost liked it; that one still makes her uneasy, but she tells herself there was just something cathartic about the sheer silliness of beating a giant frog over the head with a stuffed toy until the frog vanished in a satisfying sizzle of static.

She wishes she could tell Eri any of it.

She has this guilty daydream, sometimes, where she's back in the Game, only in her own skin and Eri's with her. Which is horrible, because of course that would mean they'd both be dead and of course she doesn't want that—and she wouldn't wish the Game on Eri or anyone else—and she's supposed to be Neku's partner, anyway, isn't she? She was his fee, and that probably means… something scarier than anything she faced in the Underground.

But it's only a daydream, and it's hers. So she can make it one where they'll all get out alive and unhurt and where she doesn't have to worry about what it means, that she was the most important thing that Neku had.

And however she chases it out, the image always slips back into her head anyway: a wolf Noise lunging towards them, snarling, and Eri shrinking back in surprise and fear and confusion. And Shiki stepping in front of her, shielding, glancing back over her shoulder with a bold and confident grin like the one Neku sometimes wears now. _Don't worry,_ she'd say. _I've faced down worse. We've got this._

She's probably the real monster for even thinking it, but she wishes she could show Eri how strong she really is.


	7. Dress-up

As for the clothes thing: there's the winter morning Neku finds his closet filled floor to ceiling with one of the latest popular gothic lolita brands and _nothing else_ , when he's already running late for his first class of the day. He manages to swallow the irritated splutters before they spill out of his mouth, focuses on drawing deep breaths and counting to ten before saying, levelly, "I'm not actually your doll to dress up. You know that, right?"

Silence.

Neku rolls his eyes. He hates it when Joshua pulls this shit, and at the same time he kind of doesn't completely hate it because at least it means Joshua's still there somewhere and hasn't completely forgotten him, and he hates that he doesn't completely hate it. Because that makes sense. "Only I guess you don't know," he says, beginning to pull things off of hangers and throw them on the bed in piles, which he mentally labels as _not actually terrible_ and _if I really have to_ and _oh gods kill it with fire._ "Do you? You don't, because you're… you. Everybody else is just a toy to play with, aren't they?

Silence.

A gauzy black shirt catches his eye; it has a musical staff embroidered in silver along the hems and the collar, dotted with notes. Neku hates himself for scanning them, for hastily reading the melody, looking for any kind of meaning there.

He doesn't find one. They're just random notes, as far as he can see. He reluctantly tosses it in the _not actually terrible_ pile, and then pulls out his phone, glances at it, grimaces. Yeah, actually showing up to class is not a thing that's happening for him this morning unless he leaves right now and just goes in his pajamas, and it's too cold out for that.

It's not because he's going to spend hours staring through the heaps of black satin and lace and frills, searching desperately for a message—any message at all, or at least any message more than: _I'm bored enough to screw with your wardrobe, but not bored enough to talk to you._ That one comes through loud and clear. But he's not going to do that, anyway, because he's done it once or twice before and that way lies the kind of madness that leaves a person psychoanalyzing statues on street corners, so desperate for a connection they can understand that they'll see humanity in cold stone.

(He still wonders about that guy, sometimes, and feels kind of bad for rolling his eyes at him all those years ago.)

A jacket patterned with thin lines like twisting snakes or loose puppet strings, shiny dark gray against black. Neku runs his fingers along them; they put him in mind of the taboo Noise, somehow. It's been years now, but he still winces at the memory of cheery Nao going out in a cloud of static. "Hope you're doing okay," he says. "For whatever that's worth."

Silence.

He checks the pockets, because he always does. They're empty, because they always are.

The shirt and jacket are bearable, and he digs up a pair of ouji-style trousers that aren't completely ridiculous. They fit, perfectly, because apparently it's not creepy for someone to take your measurements without permission while you sleep if the someone in question is a god. Shiki would be delighted, he has to admit when he eyes himself up and down in the mirror. As long as he didn't tell her where the stuff came from she would be, anyway. He wouldn't have chosen any of it, given the option, but he's pretty sure he wears it as well as anyone could.

He meets his reflection's eyes, and his mouth quirks into a rueful half smile, because if that's not the story of his life, what is?


	8. Fantasy

Neku has this fantasy where he'll walk into WildKat one Saturday afternoon and Joshua will just be there, drinking coffee and toying with his phone.

Sometimes, in Neku's head, he stops frozen in the doorway, and Joshua looks up and grins and says, _Howdy, partner. It's been a while, huh?_ Sometimes, when Neku's imagination is feeling optimistic, Joshua even adds, _Good to see you._

Sometimes, in Neku's head, he lunges at Joshua, grabs him by the collar, demands in a snarl to know where the hell he's _been_ for the last—how many years. Why he left. If he has any _fucking_ idea what it's been like, to wait and wonder and looking for any kind of actual meaning in the stupid redecorations of his apartment and rearrangements of his wardrobe and chance glimpses of reflected color in cell phone screens. _Never pull that shit again. Ever._

In Neku's head, he usually survives this move, and sometimes Joshua doesn't even laugh at him. Much.

Other times neither of them says anything, and Neku just orders a coffee of his own, and slides into the seat next to him and opens his sketchpad, and after a while Joshua leans over to see what he's drawing, his hair brushing lightly against Neku's shoulder, and then they're just—talking, about art and music and the unfairness of Sanae Hanekoma's ever-inflating coffee prices, and Joshua is teasing and cynical as he ever was, and Neku is back to rolling his eyes and grumbling snark in return. As if the last time they actually talked to each other was yesterday, instead of a number of years ago that hurts to count.

But always—always there is a moment, in this fantasy, when he realizes that Joshua is still fifteen, slender and light-voiced and playful and _ugh, adults: I did tell you, Neku. A job I could slack off at and still get paid. But you do you, if you really insist._

And then Neku snaps himself out of it, and he gets up and goes to stare in the mirror and wonders if it's only his imagination, and wishful thinking brought on by the fantasy, that make him think that all these years later, he still doesn't look that much older himself.

It has to be his imagination. Doesn't it?


	9. Mask

_Fall 2007:_

"Well? How do I look?" 

The voice is Joshua's, light and dry, but when Sanae Hanekoma looks up from a mountain of paperwork he finds himself staring into the dour mask of Megumi Kitaniji's face.

He pinches the bridge of his nose for an instant before answering. "Look? Fine. Sound, though? You're gonna need to work on that." 

( _Also, this is a terrible idea,_ he does not add. Because quite frankly, after the events of the summer, if Joshua's stubborn obstinate pigheadedness is going to drive him to make his own life considerably riskier and more difficult than it has to be, then Hanekoma is not _in any way_ actually interested in stopping him. Sitting back and watching the results with popcorn at hand, maybe. Stopping, no.)

When Joshua speaks again, it's in Kitaniji's impassive bass. "Do you criticize the Composer's tone, mortal?"

Hanekoma snorts. " _Mortal._ Been a good few centuries since anyone's called me that. But no, no—no criticism here, boss." He rubs his forehead wearily, turns back to the report he's been trying to write for the last three hours, in which he's trying to explain as calmly and reasonably as possible that Joshua, after giving the matter lengthy and careful thought, has elected not to appoint a new Conductor at the present time. 

The trick is to convey this message without saying anything from which it could possibly be inferred that Joshua made this choice only after being told repeatedly—for weeks—that _no,_ he couldn't have Neku for the job, at least not for the next ten or twenty years minimum, and then only if Neku _actually agreed to it._ And only after weeks of sulking, silent treatment, and general snit-throwing failed to budge Hanekoma on that front.

"Good," Joshua-as-Kitaniji says solemnly. "I would question your fitness to serve Him if you were. Remember always that the Composer is above your petty earthly opinions, for in His light we are all mere—"

Hanekoma chucks an uncapped pen at his head, with just enough speed and will behind it that even Joshua won't be able to stop it—and then Joshua is back in his own, considerably shorter fifteen-year-old form, smiling innocently as the pen flies over his head and clatters against the wall, where it leaves a noticeable black streak across the paint. "Was it something I said?"

"I can see this whole exercise is going to work wonders for your ego," Hanekoma says sourly.

"I was only trying to stay in character, Sanae. Obviously he wouldn't know who you were—and you're the one who's been insisting that the swift appointment of a strong and decisive Conductor is vital to the continued stability of the UG." Joshua shrugs more languidly than usual, as if he's actively shedding Kitaniji's stiffness. "Megumi was a very strong Conductor. But if he's not a tedious zealot, they'll all notice something's off, and that won't do anything good for stability, will it?"

The second pen does hit home, but only because Hanekoma makes it change course in midair, boomeranging around behind Joshua's graceful sidestep to smack him in the back of the head. "The _tedious zealot_ in question died at your whim and thanked you for the privilege, J," he says, his voice going quiet. Joshua rubs the back of his head and gives him a sullen look. "Show a little respect, at least."

Joshua's brows rise. "Judging the dead is in my job description, Sanae. It's not tasteless when it's me doing it. Anyway, I never pretended to think more of him than I did before I erased him, and he never resented it. Megumi gloried in being useful. That I'm still finding use for him is respect."

Hanekoma sighs and drops that one. Not worth the time that a lecture or an argument would take, and it wouldn't stick, anyway; he's always had to pick his battles, with Joshua. "Well," he says, "you've got the appearance down, and the voice. So—as you say—it's really down to your acting ability." He grins. "And your willingness to keep up with the Conductor's paperwork, course."

"Ah. That. He'll be deputizing a good deal of it," Joshua says airily. "Happily, Yashiro's eager for more responsibility."

Sanae snorts. "Lucky him. Well, then, how about you let those of us not in such happy circumstances get back to our own work—" he waves a hand at the door— "while you go forth and Conduct. Have fun. I'll be interested to hear how it goes."

Joshua only chuckles, and slides snakelike back into Kitaniji's form as he turns to leave, sunglasses and Dragon Couture unfurling themselves from his skin.

But at the door, Joshua-as-Kitaniji pauses for a moment, and then turns back, and says quietly: "Of course, Producer, in your case… I would more than question your fitness to serve Him."

And Hanekoma can't stop himself from stiffening, just the slightest bit, before he turns his head and meets the impassive sunglassed gaze and sees in it that Joshua _knows._

Probably has known, for quite some time now.

"If I knew who you were," Joshua-as-Kitaniji adds, slow and deadly deliberate. "And if I knew what you had done."

Hanekoma says nothing, only watches him quietly, waiting to see which way this one's going to go.

At last the form of Joshua's former Conductor inclines his head slightly, and says, voice still soft and stern, "Be glad that He in His knowledge and wisdom is more forgiving than I am, Producer."

And then he turns, and leaves, and Hanekoma lets out a long breath.

Huh. Well. So that just happened.

As he goes back to his work, a thought occurs to him: he never thought he'd see the day that Joshua Kiryu—in any context—would admit to caring enough for himself that he'd find any fault at all with someone else for stabbing him in the back.

Maybe that mask will have its uses, after all.


	10. Magic

"Shiki! Look who I found at the airport!" Eri is grinning ear to ear as she leads Neku through the door of the small but well-furnished apartment that she and Shiki share in Paris. It's only the second time that he's actually been there; the first was four years ago now, for Shiki and Eri's wedding, just a few months after France made it legal. 

Shiki beams and runs to give him a tight hug. "I'm so glad you're here," she whispers in his ear, and for a second he's back at Hachiko in the sun at the end of a long school week.

"Me too," he whispers back.

"Supper's on the way," she says. "I was hoping I'd have everything done just as you got here, but—"

"Can I help with anything?"

"No," she says firmly. "You've had a long flight. Sit. Rest!"

"I sat and rested on the plane," he protests. "For hours." But she shakes her head and flaps her hands at him, shooing him away from the counter.

"You've gotta admit he does look surprisingly not dead, for that flight," Eri says critically, and winks before stepping back to eye him up and down. "Actually, he looks pretty good, flight or no. Seriously, dude, wherever you're hiding that magic potion of youth—spill some for the rest of us, will ya? I swear, you barely look like you've aged a—"

She's interrupted by the sound of glass landing too loudly on marble, and Shiki swearing as something sloshes and spills. "Oh, damn. Eri, there's no paper towels on the roll. Go grab me some, would you?" There's an odd, tense note in her voice, which is fine because it pretty well matches the odd, tense note humming down Neku's spine at Eri's comment. Eri hears it too, because Neku catches the puzzled look she shoots to her wife, but she nods and hurries out. Only after Eri's out of the room does Shiki bite her lip and dart a glance at Neku, worried creases at the corners of her eyes.

They recover easily enough for the moment; supper is sweet, full of laughter and stories. At last, though, Eri glances between the two of them and politely slips out, pleading the need for some solitude to work on a design project that's on a tight schedule.

The smile fades from Shiki's face as Eri leaves the room, and she leans in, dropping her voice almost to a whisper. "Neku. You sure you're all right?"

He's been anticipating the question all evening but still doesn't quite know how to answer, and stands up to clear his dishes away to buy himself a few seconds more. "I've been," he begins, and then stops, clears his throat, forces a smile and tries again. "I think I…"

The words won't come. He's been so carefully _not talking about this,_ for so long, with everyone—everyone except for one person who probably isn't actually there and certainly isn't actually listening—that everything he knows he should say to Shiki dries up before it ever reaches his tongue.

"You know, back when we were in high school I used to figure I was just imagining things," Shiki says slowly, as he adds her dirty dishes to his pile and carts them away to the sink. "I figured you were just—I don't know. Naturally blessed with youthful looks? I mean, we were all still teenagers, so even if I could see everybody else getting a little older, I… figured with you it was just…"

She trails off, and even without glancing back at her Neku knows she's looking down, fidgeting with the button on the cuff of her sleeve. She's always danced around the edges of the continued strangeness in his life, aware that it was beyond her reach to change but no happier about it than she had to be.

"There's no easy way to ask this," she says at last, abruptly. "Neku, are you a Reaper?"

"Not as far as I know." He grimaces, but makes himself return to the table and sit back down. "And I mean, I'm pretty sure I would know."

Shiki lets out a breath, slumps back in her chair. "Okay. Good. I mean, I… I'd still love you even if you were, but… good." She twists her fingers together like she's trying to tie them into knots. "I'm sorry. I know that was a terrible question to ask, and I didn't—I didn't think you were, but seriously, Neku… if you put a uniform on and headed back to tenth grade, nobody would look at you twice."

It's a horror and a relief to hear her voice it aloud, the thing he's so often stared at in the mirror, asking himself if he was just seeing things. He's been telling himself he was seeing things for years now. "Yeah," he says, and runs his hands through his hair distractedly, the move feeling shakier than he expects. "Okay. So you do see it too."

"It's a little hard to miss," she says, and her eyes are sad. "Neku, this is me asking. Is he still… you know…"

No need to clarify which _he_ Shiki means, or choose any of the hundred ways she could end that question. _Still screwing with your head. Still jerking you around. Still lying to you. Still hurting you._

_Still in your life in any way at all._

And it's not like Neku doesn't understand where she's coming from, because he totally does. But he still shies away from telling her about the stupid ongoing haunting of his apartment. About the moments in the middle of the night when he wakes up certain that someone was talking to him, just a moment ago, and he can remember the voice—he _knew_ the voice—but not the words. About the times he's been so sure he saw or heard _something:_ a reflection in a window, a hum of laughter in a crowd.

About how badly he wants those things to add up to something more, to something meaningful. The magic potion Eri teased him about—though it's not about wanting perpetual youth, or he tells himself it isn't. Tells himself he's not that selfish. "I haven't seen him in upwards of ten years," he says, which is technically true. He's only thought he's seen him.

Shiki nods, and she's kinder than to say what she's thinking. But Neku knows if he could still scan people, what he would hear her thinking right now is: _Good._


	11. Dream

_August 2007:_

Joshua knows there's a hollow gray space, somewhere less than a breath and a trigger pull away, where the month went… otherwise. He hasn't gone looking for it, doesn't feel the need to see what became of that version of himself; he knew there might be risks going in, he chose to take them, and that's that, really. The closest thing to a kindness he can offer that reality's Joshua is to leave him to his fate in whatever semblance of peace is allowed to him.

(Not that the other Joshua deserves kindness; he's as clear on that as he ever was. _Deserving_ is a flawed concept, from his vantage: a presumption of an underlying moral order that doesn't exist, a presumption of importance born out of that order that's even more laughable. People get what they get, and they work out how to live with it or they don't. But he's willing to let himself off the hook on this one; it's not like anyone else is going to.)

So he hasn't gone looking for it.

But he sleeps, because even he has to recharge after everything that's happened recently. And he dreams. And in his dreams, _it_ comes looking for _him:_

_An insatiable emptiness that craves nothing but to be full again, sucking in everything around like a greedy scavenger. Light and sound and soul and music and imagination: all swallowed, all gone. Forever._

_And here are you, sinking into the realization that you have just slipped past the event horizon of this black hole, and from everyone else's point of view you are gone now too. Sucked into the void, torn apart in a blink._

_From your point of view, time will slow, and stretch, and you will spend the rest of eternity in this moment: pulled closer and closer to the oblivion you so sought and never, ever quite reaching it._

_No sound can find you here, but you hear one voice nonetheless, bitter and sardonic and deeply disappointed:_ Having fun yet, J?

Joshua's eyes snap open, and the impulse to lash out surges halfway to his fingertips, white-hot, before he realizes that he's alone and sprawled on an old, musty couch in the back room at WildKat. 

He blinks a few times, orienting himself to the darkness and giving the brief swell of power time to ebb. Then he sits up and stretches and stands, paces out into the hall and into the main cafe. 

Sanae stands by the front window staring out, his silhouette framed by the lamplit street. He doesn't look around as Joshua slips in, but after a moment he speaks, his tone dry. "Bad dreams, J?"

Joshua doesn't deign to answer, only waves a hand at the coffeepot to start it up, and then goes to get himself a mug.


	12. Not Alone

He's been in Paris for five days, staying with Eri and Shiki. Nothing's exploded yet.

"Neku," Shiki says as they wander along a path on the bank of the Seine, "Eri and I were talking."

It's an innocuous start, except that she says it in approximately the same tone in which she once ordered him to take his shorts off in the middle of the street. He shoves his hands in his pockets and tries not to tense up preemptively. "Yeah?"

"We were thinking maybe you could stay for a while," she says.

He stutters over his next step. "I… uh."

She's facing straight ahead, but watching him out of the corner of her eye. "You're freelancing, and you're between projects. Most of your commissions are online anyway. You aren't tied down to one place."

Except he is. He is, and she knows it, and she's watching him. "Doesn't mean I can pick up and move to France," he says, because that much is both (a) true and (b) unlikely to start a massive shitshow of an argument.

She rolls her eyes. "I'm not talking about permanently, Neku. You can stay three months without a visa."

"I have a cat."

"Which Rhyme is taking care of," she says. "You know they'd keep her longer if you asked them. They love that cat."

"Yeah, but—"

"Look, Eri's basically famous these days. Art, fashion—we've got _connections,_ Neku. And we know how good you are. I don't mean to sound mercenary about this, but—you and I both know your work's worth a hell of a lot more than you're scraping up from commissions and crowdfunds."

"Said every artist ever," he mutters, irritated that she's playing that card so readily. Of all the ones she could play, it's the trickiest for him to argue with, when he's only here in the first place because they paid for his plane ticket. He's not sinking, which is pretty much a triumph in its own right, but there's a long way between _not sinking_ and _comfortably afloat._ He's not looking for the first-class cruise ship that Shiki and Eri have found their way onto, but something more reliable than a leaky rowboat would be nice, yeah. He folds his arms and rounds on her, skipping to walk backwards for a few paces. "And that's the whole story? You're just out to further my career?"

"You don't have to get defensive about it. It's called friends helping each other out, Neku. There'd be stuff we'd all have to get in order, obviously, but—well, we've had a good year, financially." She glances away, ducking her head and rubbing the back of her neck in a quick, awkward movement. "A really good year. And, like I said, there’s the kind-of-famous-now thing. We know people, we could help you get any paperwork and stuff in order, and we were thinking we could cover your rent back in Shibuya while you were here—"

"—My studio's back there. And all of my stuff. I packed for a week, not for three months. I have—"

"Neku," she says, "we can sort it out. Look, it's just a thought. If you really don't want to then we're not going to force you, but…"

Out of Shibuya. Out of Tokyo, out of _Japan._ For three months. He makes himself breathe, makes himself take the idea in and turn it around and look at it from various angles. Three months. No coming home to hideous new furniture, no unwelcome wardrobe makeovers, no teasingly threatening notes about bulletproof vests, for three months. No constant, itching certainty, half dread and half longing, that Joshua's waiting just around the next corner.

These should all probably sound like good things. Maybe he does need a little more time away.

Shiki sighs. "…Well," she says. "We're a little—well, Eri's a little worried about you." A shadow passes over her face. "I'm more than a little worried about you. I just… I know how you throw yourself into your work, sometimes. And with us here, and Beat down in Osaka these days, I just…" She grimaces. "I just think it would maybe be good for you to be… not alone, for a while."

_But I'm not alone._

He doesn't say it, because he knows this is the thing she's most afraid of.


	13. Eww!

_Eww!_ Rhyme texts him. _Neku, Piglet left me a present on my bed._

He winces. _Do I want to know what it was?_

_Mouse. Well, former mouse._

_Oh. Yeah, she does that. Sorry._

_Cats are cats,_ Rhyme sends back, pragmatically. _It's a little disconcerting as a former squirrel, though._

An instant later this is followed by two emoji—one with eyes squinched shut and tongue out, and the other teary from laughing. Neku grins, shaking his head. It's funny, but of all of them Rhyme is the one who's still easy to joke with about the horrors of the past. They've all coped in their own ways, he guesses.

Or not coped, maybe.

He's been staying in Paris with Shiki and Eri for two weeks, now, and it's kind of—yeah. There's a weight off that he hadn't really noticed was on in the first place, and it's funny how much easier it is to breathe without it. Art is flowing easier too after late nights spent laughing with friends, drawings jumping off his pen in a way they'd stopped doing recently.

_Don't get me wrong,_ Rhyme adds. _I still love her. Just kinda makes you stop and think, you know?_

And Neku can't help grimacing at this, because—well.

_Yeah,_ he sends back. _I do._


	14. Light, part 1

Paris. _La Ville Lumière:_ the City of Light.

It's funny, Neku thinks, that Paris is the one that has that name. He knows it's only tangentially related to the actual modern-day city lights, that the nickname goes back to the 1800s when it was seen as a center of Science and Inquiry and Progress and so on—metaphorical light, not literal—and to the fact that it was an early adopter of gas lamps on its streets. It's still funny. He's used to Tokyo at night, jumbles of neon signs and flashing billboards and massive screens blaring advertisements at the crowds, everything a noisy, multicolored blur. The lights of Paris seem relatively subdued by comparison. Still, it's beautiful, in ways that are completely different from Tokyo. Its age manifests in weird European ways, massive Christian cathedrals and blocks of sprawling Gothic architecture; he thinks the girl who used to run the Lapin Angelique shop over by A-East would have been in heaven. 

He's not sorry he took Shiki's invitation to stay longer than he'd planned, even if he still slightly resents the fact that she won't admit the real reason she asked. They've actually found him free studio space to use while he's here, courtesy of a friend of a friend of Eri's who liked the look of Neku's work (though he suspects she liked the gleam of Eri's smile more.) It's up on the fifth floor of its building, overlooking the Seine, with a wide floor-to-ceiling window that he's currently sprawled out in front of watching the evening skyline. It's got to be costing someone a small fortune in rent, but that someone is _not him,_ so—he'll take it while it lasts. _Enjoy the moment,_ he thinks, and he can't help laughing quietly, wondering what his sullen, angry fifteen-year-old self would have made of this generosity.

He doesn't even have to worry about his own rent back in Shibuya for the moment; Shiki made good on that offer, too, and he argued against it, of course, but… if he's honest, he didn't argue very hard. For the time he's here he's _free,_ the constant weights of grown-up debts and obligations and worries about his future breathtaking in their absence. He can stay here all night on a pile of floor pillows if he wants, sketching the lines of the horizon and trying to catch the glow of the building lights as they wink on, and not have to think about anything else. This is luxury on a level he hasn't had a taste of since childhood summer vacations, and as he stares out over the city the light of it fills him until he feels like he's floating, like he's glowing from head to toe. And—

—then—

—a glint in the glass catches his eye, and he refocuses from the city beyond to his own reflection, right in front of him.

And he understands why he feels like he's glowing.

Because he is.


	15. Light, part 2

Neku's glowing. 

He's _glowing,_ okay, and he looks down at his hand just in case the glass was just doing something weird but yeah, no, glowing, and he drops his sketchbook and scrambles backwards just in case—in case of what, he's not sure. In case it catches on fire, maybe. He doesn't feel like he's about to spontaneously combust, but the whole thing about spontaneity is he's not sure he'd know—

_Ça suffit._

The words resound in his head, and the light radiating from his skin flickers and goes dark. An instant later a _presence_ hits him like a battering ram, and all he can do is gasp for air, teetering on the edge of balance—and then a new light spills into the air, and he's down for the count, shutting his eyes and trying not to go blind as a cacophony of sound fills the air.

Sound. It takes him a minute to realize that the sound is someone snapping at him: a man's voice, the sheer irritation in it drilling into Neku's ears like the shriek of microphone feedback. It takes him a minute longer to realize that the reason he doesn't understand a word that's being said is because it's in very fast, very angry French.

Hands still pressed over his eyes, he flails for the only damn thing in the language he can currently remember how to say, and gasps it out, stumbling awkwardly over the obnoxious French r's that he still hasn't got the hang of: " _Je ne comprends—je ne parle pas Français. Je ne parle pas—_ "

The mic cuts out. Silence drops over him.

It stretches out for a moment, and then the voice says, a bit more calmly, in smooth if oddly-accented Japanese, "No, you really don't, do you?"

Startled, Neku opens his eyes, and finds the light dimmed to bearable levels. The figure towering over him is still glowing, but he's reduced himself to something more like the moon than the sun, no longer directly dangerous to look at. Neku winces, rubbing his head, and tries to catch up. "No. I don't. But you're… oh, shit." He groans. "Shit. You… you're a Composer, aren't you. Uh. Hi there." The light shifts, rippling subtly, and Neku's head starts to throb. "You—all of Paris, or do they divide it up like—"

"Only the fifteenth," the man says. "Vaugirard." There's a note of wry humor in his voice, as if it's absurd to think he might be god of the whole city—but only its most populous _arrondissement,_ that's a perfectly reasonable thing for him to rule. He crouches down, seeming to peer at Neku curiously, though Neku can't make out his eyes through the moonlight glare. "And you're Neku Sakuraba. Somewhere in Tokyo, no? Shinjuku, was it?"

"Shibuya," Neku mutters, pushing himself up on his elbows.

"Oh yes, of course," Vaugirard's Composer says, in the smooth tones of one trying to pretend he already knew the thing he's just been told—but Neku, though he doesn't know why, has a feeling that the man already did know perfectly well which ward he was from. "That perhaps clarifies a few things. You've got a rather—hm. A rather eccentric fellow in charge there, no?"

Neku snorts. The Composer's tone is amiably sympathetic, but there's something in the light he radiates that leaves Neku feeling giddy and nauseous at the same time. He feels like he might get drunk off breathing it, if he's not careful, and that… that makes him think he'd better be careful. "Are you telling me there are Composers who aren't?" Not that he has any way to know, when this is the first one besides Joshua he's ever met, but he's… never figured the job would attract anyone normal.

"Hah! Fair," Vaugirard concedes. "Still—there's eccentric and there's eccentric, isn't there? Very few, I think, would leave someone like you a loose end for—how long has it been?"

Ten years. The words fizz up in Neku's throat like bubbles in champagne. _Ten years._ He swallows them, though they burn on the way back down. "Someone like me," he repeats, and forces himself to sit up, though it makes the room wobble a little. "Wait. A minute ago, before you showed up, I was…" He glances down at his hand. The Composer's light shines bright on it, but it doesn't currently appear to be lit up from inside, which is… vaguely reassuring. It would be more reassuring if the pounding in his head wasn't still going on. "What the hell was that about?"

There is a silence that is slightly too long, and then: "He really hasn't told you anything, has he?"

A dizzy laugh escapes Neku's throat. "No. But the last time he actually told me what was going on, he shot me, like—two minutes later, so—" No. He shuts his mouth on the words. _Careful._ The light's dancing and twirling like a whirlpool and it wants to draw him in. "What is it he should have told me?"

"In the weeks you've been here," the Composer says, "you've left over a hundred anomalies in your wake, in the fifteenth alone. All of which I've had to retune and clean up." At Neku's blank look, he clarifies: "Alterations to the score of reality."

"Oh, those," Neku hears himself say, relief washing over him because this—this makes some kind of sense now, although over a hundred? _Really,_ Josh? And wait, he never knew Joshua could follow him out of—

"Yes, those," Vaugirard's Composer drawls. "And here we come to _someone like you._ Neku, the average reasonably creative soul, still resident in the Realground, will cause at most one or two in a lifetime that are large enough to register and need retuning. The average victor of a Game, a handful more—but rarely into the double digits. And that's across their entire life."

The light is buoying him up and away from himself; he's floating on it. "Right, but the ones that follow me around, those aren't me. That's just—we're talking about the stupid petty pranks here, right? World's worst redecorating parties? The wannabe goth wardrobe makeovers? He's been pulling that shit for years."

There is the sudden tangible sense, despite the fact that the Composer's Japanese is perfectly fluent, that something is being lost in the air between them in translation. "And who precisely is _he_?"

"Joshua." This doesn't appear to clear things up, and Neku adds, "Shibuya's Composer?"

The too-long silence is longer this time. "Ah."

"But he doesn't usually follow me out of Shibuya," Neku mumbles. The light's going kind of shimmery now. He shuts his eyes to block it out, but they open again of their own accord. He shuts them again. They open again. "I didn't think he could actually reach this far. That's kind of why I'm here. I mean, I'm here for friends, but that's the… other reason."

"Sakuraba, if the Composer of Shibuya were interfering with the makeup of reality in Paris, we'd have an international incident on our hands."

The words slip out: "Oh, you _have_ met him."

"I think perhaps I have a phone call to make," Vaugirard says quietly, and stands up. "You'll excuse me. Wait here."

The light dims to something lulling and soft, a reflection on rippling water, and Neku lets out a breath of relief and slumps back as the ache in his head lets up. He can hear Vaugirard talking in a low, quiet voice, somewhere at a distance, but he can't quite make out the words and he's pretty sure it's in French anyway. So he gives up and lets himself drift on the tide. It's probably the safest thing to do when he's dealing with a Composer anyway, he thinks drowsily, even one who doesn't appear to be carrying a gun.

He remains dimly aware of the tone of the one-sided conversation, as it gradually shifts from calm and businesslike to teeth-gnashing exasperation, but he doesn't think much of it.

Eventually the Composer snaps, " _Salut,_ " and then there's silence for a while.

And then the light flares, and then: "So. I've just talked to Shibuya."

Neku sits bolt upright, nerves jangling, heart in his throat. "Wait, you talked to Josh? He actually talked to you?" That explains the exasperation, he thinks. And: Joshua speaks French? Then he shakes his head at that thought, because of course Joshua speaks French. Bastard.

( _What did he say,_ he doesn't scream. Even Mr. H won't tell him anything, hasn't for years; Neku's given up asking.)

"It appears you've misunderstood something, Neku. No Composer has been causing the anomalies that follow you." A deliberate pause. "Here, or in Shibuya."

Neku stares at him, frozen, the words seeping into his consciousness like ice-cold water trickling onto his spine, a drop at a time. "What?"

"No Composer," Vaugirard reiterates, his voice calm and steady and utterly indifferent to the fact that in this moment Neku's world is melting and fracturing, breaking loose from its moorings and drifting out to sea, "has caused your anomalies."

"Then who—" Neku begins, but he can't finish the question. Can't be hearing this, because it's not true. Of course it's not true.

The Composer of Vaugirard shrugs. "It appears you have," he says. "It's not uncommon, when people do cause them, that the manifestations are entirely outside their conscious control."

Neku stares at him.

"In your case, we're really going to have to do something to manage their frequency, though," the Composer muses. "It's a curious puzzle. Well—" and he gives another little shrug— "I must see what can be done. But my presence, I think, is straining you, so for now, Neku—rest."

And he vanishes, and takes his light with him, and leaves Neku on the floor in the dark.


	16. Supernatural

"Do you remember that weird fortune-telling thing people used to play when we were in high school?" Eri says suddenly. It's Saturday and raining, and they were all feeling lazy, so they slept in late and now they're lounged around the living room of Shiki and Eri's apartment in their pajamas. "Reaper Creeper?"

Shiki blinks and can't help glancing sidelong at Neku. He's staring out the window, one heel tapping restlessly against the carpet. She's not sure he even heard the question, but maybe… maybe that's for the best. He's in a Mood today like she hasn't seen from him in years. She can't talk to him about it until they get a chance when Eri's not around, but she figures memories of the Game are probably not needed today.

"Yeah," she says, cautiously. "What about it?"

"I was just going through some stuff and I found my old card from it. It was stuck in the back of one of my old sketchbooks." Eri grins and waves the card in the air with a fluttering motion. "Betcha didn't know the Reaper followed us to Paris, huh?" 

Shiki manages a laugh, manages not to look at Neku again. Whatever's going on with him, she's pretty sure he doesn't need Eri's attention drawn to it. "No kidding? There's a blast from the past, huh?"

"Right?" Eri gives the card a contemplative look, turning it over and over in her hands. "I always wondered how this thing really worked. I know people said it wasn't really anything supernatural—that it was like a Ouija board, where you moved the coin subconsciously. But Ai and Mina—you remember them, right? They swore it gave solid answers, like, ninety percent of the time, even if they didn't touch it at all. And it worked a few times for me too. So I never really knew what to think." She looks back up, and there's something curious and daring in her eyes as she grins. "What did _you_ think? Really the Reaper?"

"Yeah," Shiki says softly. "I always figured it was really the Reaper."

"All right. So whaddya say, then?" Eri leans in, dropping her voice conspiratorially, and winks. "Wanna see if he's still in business?"

Shiki's gaze strays over to Neku despite her best efforts; he's still lost in thought by the window, showing no sign he's listening. "Oh, I don't know. I mean, Paris. The Reaper's probably out sightseeing."

"Tsk. He's got a job to do." Eri props her hands on her hips. "And we've lived here how many years now? He's had time to take in the sights. C'mon, what should we ask?" She follows Shiki's gaze. "Hey, Neku, what should we ask the—"

"I don't think we should ask the Reaper anything," Shiki says, too quickly and not quickly enough. "Not anything. Not right now. Maybe another day, okay?"

Eri blinks at her, clearly taken aback, but she only sounds slightly hurt as she says, "…Okay. Sorry?"

"No, it's—" Shiki sighs and rubs the back of her neck, wondering how she's going to explain her vehemence on the subject later on. "It's okay. I just…" She tears her gaze away from Neku's silent form, and meets her wife's eyes, and makes herself smile. "I think I'd rather let the past lie, today. I mean, it's the weekend. We're in Paris." She spreads her arms wide, and her smile feels a little more genuine as she says it. "I'm in _Paris,_ with the woman I love and my best friend. Let's just—enjoy the moment, yeah?"


	17. Shadow

"Neku," Shiki prompts, quietly. "What's up?"

He doesn't answer right away, staring out at the street. The day's at that twilight point where the shadows start playing tricks, and the gargoyles that perch by the door of the old building across the way shift their stances, getting ready to pounce.

_No Composer has been causing the anomalies that follow you._

_You have._

"I think," he says. "I think I've been believing something stupid."

The couch cushion shifts slightly as Shiki sits down next to him and pulls her knees up to her chest. "I've still got Mr. Mew," she offers. "He's on a shelf in the bedroom. You need me to throw him at whoever hurt you? Because I totally will."

Out on the street, the gargoyles are growing larger. Neku laughs. It's thin and sharp, scraping through the rust in his throat. "I think that's a bad idea. I met one of your local Composers yesterday."

He doesn't miss her flinch, the convulsive twitch of her hands. "Oh."

"Yeah. So." His eyes burn. Rubbing them doesn't help. "He told me some… things."

Shiki speaks with the caution of someone addressing a man on a high, high ledge. "And you believe him?"

"I don't know." The words drop out of his mouth like stones. 

The nearest gargoyle starts to unfurl its wings, and Neku shuts his eyes, turning away. When he looks back, it'll just be a statue in the shadows again. He knows that. 

"I don't know," he repeats, more softly. "But I think I have to stop looking for things that aren't there."


	18. Wings

_Fall 2010_

Hanekoma's fond of Joshua, past all the… well, the uniquely _Joshua_ bullshit. He always will be; he'll never completely shake the image of the solitary stray who slipped into his shop decades ago and took shelter there. And Joshua's imagination will always be a beautiful thing: sharp as cats' claws, intricate as lace, brittle as the ice-white wings that sprout from his back, wings even the strongest of Joshua's Reapers can't see. Dangerous, and all the more so when he turns its edges against himself, but beautiful.

The last few years have been long, but the years are always long, dealing with Composers; no one gets the job and keeps it by being placid and biddable. It's not like Hanekoma's life would have gotten much easier if the little lion of the south* had succeeded in his bid, or if Neku had pulled the trigger—it only would have turned difficult in different ways. (Though in both cases they would have been louder and more direct ways, which—when viewed through the filter of the last several decades of Hanekoma's life—might have _seemed_ easier.) Okay, it's been a _particularly_ long few years in this instance, but Hanekoma's still fond of the kid.

And he doesn't like to threaten. Granted, maybe if he'd been more willing on that front they'd have stopped the mess that went down three years ago before it started—but it all worked out in the end, and Joshua's back to form, finer and sharper than he ever was, with his old coat of venomous self-loathing mostly polished off. He's kept up his stupid masquerade as his old Conductor, which as expected has only made him all the more goddamn insufferable, and the injunctions handed down by the Powers That Be have left him with every bit as much of an injured-martyr complex as he had to start. But he's been pouring himself into his work with a vengeance, and all of it's feeding the bright, chaotic, joyous battleground that is Shibuya, so it's worked out. In this universe, at least. 

(In some others… no, but that's the nature of a gamble, and the nature of free will, and always has been. Can't win if you won't take risks, and choice means nothing if all possibility of royally fucking up is taken off the menu.)

So—Hanekoma doesn't like to threaten, where Joshua's concerned, mostly prefers to sit back and let him do what he will and figure out what consequences are in his own time. But sometimes— _sometimes._

Such as now, when he peers at the alarm sigil he set around the corner from Neku's apartment door, discreetly hidden behind a potted plant and tuned at a slightly higher frequency than Joshua should have noticed. It's been smudged in a pattern that _looks_ like random Noise interference, just enough in just the right places to render it ineffective. Joshua, if called on it, will undoubtedly give him a blank, innocent look and say _That was very unfortunate luck, Sanae, but really, what did you need an alarm there for?_

Hanekoma swears under his breath, and casts his mind out in search of the Composer's frequency.

He lands at Joshua's side an instant later, two streets over where the kid (still a kid, still a _child_ for all it's been decades) stands with his head bowed, intent on a retuning. Hanekoma says nothing, only lets his hand fall on Joshua's shoulder a little more heavily than it normally would. Not that it normally would at all; Joshua's not keen on being touched, never has been. 

Joshua tenses slightly, and his frequency sparks with an urge to violence, but he shoves it back down in a breath. One of these days, Hanekoma thinks, they've got to get back to sparring like they used to before things went downhill; they could both use an outlet for their frustrations, and mutually-agreed-upon violence is one form of physicality about which Joshua's never had qualms.

One of these days. Today is not the day to start back up, though, not when Hanekoma's genuinely angry at him.

So Hanekoma only leaves his hand where it is—and if the tips of his fingers land over the shoulderblade, at the base of a wing not currently visible but nonetheless _there_ , and if they dig in a little too harshly, dig in until Joshua's face goes carefully controlled—well.

_You've got too much riding on your good behavior, kiddo,_ he does not say. _Do not fuck it up, or so help me—I_ can't _protect you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The three Game Masters and Kitaniji have the cardinal directions in their names—Higashi = east, Minami = south, Nishi = west, Kita = north.
> 
> ~~I _totally_ put this note here before Surskitty pointed out to me it was missing. Yes.  >_>; (Thank you. :P)~~


	19. Fun

_Fall 2010:_

Joshua slips out of Neku's apartment and down to the street with a thought, and lands with a slight, quiet smile on his face.

He doesn't go in person much—even with his frequency tuned above normal UG levels, as it is now, where no one but Sanae can see him. He's behaved, hasn't spoken a word to his former proxy in the three years since the Powers That Be handed down their ban, and anyway—he does have other things to do. But he had an excuse today, routine retuning along the whole block, and Sanae's attention has been thoroughly focused elsewhere for weeks, so… he dropped in. Just for a brief glance.

It's always a small but strangely startling thrill to look in and see that Neku's still thinking of him. Right now Neku's taking art history in college, and at some future point when Sanae's again not looking, Joshua's going to find a quiet place to throw his head back and laugh, and laugh, and _laugh_ in sheer delight at the running sidebars in Neku's notes. He wishes he could drop in, lean over Neku's desk unannounced one night while the boy's lost in his studies, prop his chin on his hands and meet Neku's eyes with a wicked grin. _Well,_ now _I've thought about it. Well done._

He really wishes.

He can't, but he's got to reward devotion somehow, has to keep _Neku_ thinking about _him._ He still doesn't have another suitable Conductor candidate, not really suitable for the longterm, and Sanae did say, back when the ban started: _Twenty years from now, maybe. You can ask again in ten if you're still determined and you've been really,_ really _good, boss. But only if he says yes. It's gonna be his choice, and if you even think about imprinting for it…_

So—three years down, seven at minimum to go, and he's got to keep himself in Neku's thoughts for all that time with no talking to him and no imprinting. Happily Neku's imagination is so active these days that it's doing some of Joshua's work for him, because Neku assumes the anomalies that occasionally haunt his home are Joshua's work, and the more he assumes it the more flamboyantly petty and ridiculous they become. So all Joshua really has to do is occasionally _not_ stomp them out before Neku can notice, and let him go on assuming. Still—that lacks a personal touch, and the absolute wondrousness of those notes deserves a personal touch, however slight.

He's got retuning work to do. But it isn't really _talking_ to Neku if, mid-retune, Joshua's focus slips, and if—after that slip—there's an additional item at the bottom of the shopping list Neku left on his desk. 

Even if that item does read _bulletproof vest._

Oops.

Really, it's a small thing, very small. The odds that Sanae will catch it are infinitesimal. 

And—all right, it's not quite obeying the letter of the law, perhaps, but it's not _interfering._ It's not telling Neku anything at all that Neku hasn't already thoroughly convinced himself of, anything beyond: _I'm still here, and I always will be. Don't you forget it._

And anyway, Joshua's got to have _some_ fun, doesn't he?


	20. Yellow

The trees that line the central alley in the Tuileries Garden are starting to shade to yellow.

Neku and Shiki have been wandering Paris in mostly-silence for the last few days. Neku's grateful for that—for the company, for the wandering, for the silence. He's not up to talking much, but he doesn't want to be alone, either. And Shiki may never have liked Joshua at all, she may never have understood or approved the way Neku's emotions stayed tangled up with him long after he vanished from Neku's life, but she's a good enough friend not to say _I told you so_ right now.

So they walk in silence, and Neku looks up and thinks about those leaves. They'll fade to yellow, and they'll fall, and that will be a different kind of beauty then the summer was, but it will still be beautiful. The trees won't mourn the loss. They'll just go on existing, doing what they do.

There's an ache in his chest, tight and painful, but not empty as it was at first. There's something _right_ about it, as much as he hates it. He's been waiting and asking and searching for answers for years, and now he's got one. It's not the answer he wanted, but that was ever the risk of asking Joshua anything at all.

Like the leaves, like the trees, like the seasons—it's time to let go. Move on.

He stops, and draws in a deep breath of cool, damp air. Shiki pauses and glances back at him, her head tilted to one side. "You all right?" she asks, very quietly.

He smiles, and thinks that maybe he almost means it. "I will be."


	21. Web

Joshua sometimes thinks that setting traps for Sanae—even small ones—is a bit like being a spider who sees a hawk circling, rubs its forelegs together in greedy speculation, and gets to work. There's very little chance it will end in the spider's favor, and if it _does_ then no one involved will know what to do with themselves, least of all the spider—but oh, the temptation. 

Not that Joshua knows anything about it, of course.

"So," Sanae says as he drops into the Dead God's Pad, wings folding into his back. "You wanna maybe fill me in, boss? Because I have been taking one hell of a shouting-at this week, from, like—half the Collective overseeing Paris. And right now? I am _this close_ —" He holds his thumb and forefinger up, roughly a millimeter apart—"to admitting to every last one of them that you've been lying to me, kiddo."

Joshua gives him a long, thoughtful look, then pulls his phone out of his pocket and thumbs it on to glance at the date and time. "Well. That took you longer than I'd expected."

His Producer answers him with a low growl. "Joshua."

"I haven't lied, Sanae. Neku's fine, and I haven't touched him."

"Oh, yeah. Fine. He's fine." Sanae throws his hands up. "Except for the _slight_ problem with reality, which you've told me zilch about."

Joshua shrugs. "It hasn't been a problem in my district. If Paris has a problem, that's Paris's problem, no? It's not my place to interfere."

Sanae passes a hand over his eyes, wearily. "And hiding this didn't strike you as interfering with—"

"Neku deserves a chance at a normal life," Joshua interrupts him, calm and smooth. "That's what you told me, isn't it? His world, on his terms. If every Composer in Japan could see the strength of his imagination, he wouldn't have gotten that chance. Whether or not I gave it to him."

"I'm not talking," Sanae says, not quite through gritted teeth, "about hiding it from them, and you damn well know it. I'm talking about hiding it from _me._ "

"Oh, are you?" And Joshua flashes him a bright, sweet smile. "And would you have given him as normal a life as you gave me?"

There's something deeply, _deeply_ satisfying about the way his Producer's shoulders stiffen ever so slightly, about the way his fingers twitch, about the muscle that jumps in his jaw. It's not often Joshua genuinely gets to him, but it's _nice_ when it works, when Sanae flies face-first into the webs that Joshua's so patiently spun and set. There are few triumphs quite so complete.

Even if they're fleeting. Which this one is; Joshua knows the strands won't hold. But it's worth it nonetheless. _Yes, I know you could probably eat me alive. But still—for a moment, I made you struggle._

_And did you enjoy that moment, Mr. H?_


	22. Web, part 2

The only warning Neku gets, before the Composer of Paris's 15th _arrondissement_ appears in his borrowed studio for the second time, is a brief, blurry, dizzying moment where everything's haloed in light. He makes it to the nearest chair and sits down before the force of the Composer's aura bowls him over.

"Wear this," Vaugirard says without preamble, and holds something out. Neku's still blinking spots from his eyes; when he finally manages to focus, he feels like he's staring into one of those old Magic Eye tricks where you had to go cross-eyed to see the real picture. But he holds his eyes stubbornly still, and the world slowly resolves back into something like normality.

At least, as much normality as it can hold, when there's a glow-in-the-dark demigod standing in front of him and offering him a necklace. A smooth silver disc spins and winks on its chain, reflecting the Composer's light, and as Neku peers at it more closely he sees the delicate, glittering spiderweb carved into its surface.

"It won't hurt you," Vaugirard adds quietly. "And it will keep your imagination's effect on the world around you in better check, so you can avoid future… incidents."

Neku grimaces, but he reaches out to run his fingers along the length of the chain, watching the way the light glints along it. "No more closets full of gothic lolita, huh?"

A laugh ripples out of the Composer. "Not unless that's what you buy. But it doesn't strike me as your likeliest choice."

No more _incidents_. A week ago that would have felt like he was losing something, but—there was never anything there to lose, was there? His head's been playing tricks on him. Nothing more.

Neku takes the pendant and turns it over carefully, running his fingers over the web to feel the lines of the carving. It's beautiful, and what it offers is tempting; it tugs at him, even though the tugging is accompanied by a sharp twinge in his chest.

It's also a gift from a Composer, and he asks, carefully, "What's the catch?"

"No catch. This is to everyone's benefit, Neku." Vaugirard smiles, through the veil of light. "You won't be at constant risk of accidentally ruining your decor or turning yourself into a nightlight, and those of us charged with maintaining the stability of reality will breathe a little easier in your presence. Honestly, I'm surprised your Joshua didn't give you something similar years ago."

"Yeah, well," Neku mumbles. There's a warm sympathy in the Composer's aura that pulls gently on his words, urging him to speak. He can feel it easing him along, and a part of him digs his heels in, but then he thinks—screw it. He doesn't owe Joshua anything, except maybe a punch to the face. "Most helpful thing Josh ever gave me was a bullet to the head, so, you know." This comment passes without reaction, and through the haze Neku manages to file this away: either Vaugirard already knows that story, or Joshua's not actually as eccentric for a Composer as Vaugirard claimed. "I wouldn't really be too surprised. I don't think he's ever given a shit about making anyone's life easier."

"Even so, you can't have spent all your time in Shibuya?" Vaugirard hums at Neku's uncertain head shake. "But sending as volatile an imagination as yours into other districts on a regular basis—that would have been tantamount to a declaration of war."

Neku snorts. "I mean, for the guy I knew? That would've been on brand, probably."

"Still. You're lucky you haven't had trouble. If any one of the districts around Shibuya had taken offense… well." Vaugirard's light dims slightly, and he turns to gaze out the window, folding his hands behind his back. "No sense in dwelling on what didn't happen."

_What didn't happen?_ Neku almost wants to ask, and then again he doesn't. He doesn't think he's quite ready to hear the details of whatever fate Joshua's apparently left him open to for the last ten years. The casual carelessness of it burns his throat and leaves a bitter taste.

He goes back to looking at the pendant, turning it over and over. "So—no catch," he repeats, softly. But he has the uneasy feeling he _is_ the catch, that the instant he puts the thing around his neck the web's strands will spin out of their silver disc, and they'll stick, and he'll never get them off his skin.

He also doubts he's walking away from this conversation without putting the thing on, whether he wants to or not.

"Look, if you know how I got tangled up in the Game to begin with," he says, measuring the words out carefully, "you'll maybe understand why I'm a little… leery about Underground jewelry. However pretty it is."

"Ah. You're referring to the 2007 incident," Vaugirard says. "The red pins."

Neku's not sure if it's reassuring or not that the Composer's mind went there so quickly. "Yeah, got it in one."

"An understandable concern, from your vantage," Vaugirard concedes, and his light warms again, soft and kind. "Neku, there's no way for me to prove to you that that's not what this is. But will you believe me if I tell you that I have no desire to be the one starting a war? No one—well, no one sensible—wants a repeat of the incident you mention. It had repercussions enough that it's still fresh in the Underground's memory. If I were to start handing out mind-control devices, I'd be re-opening a very dangerous door, and my fellow Composers _would_ take steps against me."

Neku digests this, and thinks: he could pretend he's actually being given a choice right now. It would be easy to pretend. It would be nice to pretend, but he's still never gotten comfortable with lies. "And if I don't put it on?"

Vaugirard sighs. "Then forgive me for being blunt, Neku, but _I_ won't be the one starting a war." He meets Neku's sharp glare with placid calm. "I don't recommend it. You're one man, barely more than a child and far from home, with too much strength and no idea how to control it. If I acquiesce to your wishes and don't force that chain around your neck, someone else will."

Neku looks down. Well. He did ask.

"Or," Vaugirard continues quietly, "you go home to Shibuya _now._ And I do mean now; there will be a taxi at the curb by the time you reach the street, and first-class reservations awaiting you at the airport, if you so choose. You go home—to a Composer who has proven full well how poorly he values you, by the simple fact that he let you come here unwarned and unprepared—and you hope that whatever peculiar goodwill the rest of Tokyo has shown you, it continues to hold. And I suggest, once home, you leave as little as possible."

Neku stares at the web-laced pendant, and remembers a poem he had to read in an English class once, years ago. _'Won't you step into my parlor,' said the spider to the fly…_

His movements feel stiff and strange as he lifts the chain and slides it over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In other news, Surskitty is running a [TWEWY gift exchange](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/twexwy2018/profile) which I am going to be taking part in. If that’s your kind of thing, come join us!


	23. Creature

_neku, piglet is an appalling creature, jsyk_

This is followed by a heart, so Rhyme isn't completely over his cat yet, but a photo comes fast on its heels: a small black cat, seated daintily amid the leafy ruins of a flowerpot on Rhyme's kitchen floor, dirt and leaves everywhere, gazing wide-eyed up at the camera.

 _oh shit,_ Neku sends back. _Sorry_

Another burst of texts follows:

_i told her i was posting that to instagram so everyone would know what she did_  
_but then it occurred to me that she's a cat so she'd probably just enjoy the attention_  
_so instead she's grounded from social media_

Neku snorts. _Good, that'll teach her. Possibly._ He hesitates over the next words, scratching the back of his neck as he taps them out. There aren't too many people he trusts enough to take good care of his cat, but:

_Look, I know you've had her longer than expected. If she's being too much trouble I can ask one of my old classmates if they'll take her for a while_

Rhyme's response comes back with one of the special effects the messaging app does, sending small but furious explosions across the screen.

_NO_

_my cat. until you get back._

_just because she's appalling doesn't mean i'm sending her away, neku_

A scowling emoji punctuates this last, and Neku winces. In retrospect—yeah, he should've realized that might hit a nerve, if Rhyme was having a bad day. _Okay no, sorry,_ he sends back hastily. _Didn't mean it like that._

The Bito parents didn't, in the end, deal with Rhyme turning from sweet overachieving ten-year-old into… well, into a teenager… any better than they'd dealt with Beat. Rhyme's loss of drive and ambition after the Game didn't help, though they'd kept their grades up with little trouble. Sending them to a prestigious and extremely demanding high school on the other side of the country was not one of the more empathetic moves the Bito parents made, and Neku still wonders if those two have any fucking clue how badly those years messed their kid up. How they would feel, if they knew that senior high had left a kind of mental damage that even a _death game_ hadn't managed to achieve. 

They'll never know that last, of course, and they'll maybe never know any of it. Rhyme is twenty now and back in Tokyo for university, still doing fine on the grades front and still utterly aimless when it comes to life goals, and Neku's pretty sure they haven't said more than two words at a stretch to their parents in at least a year.

 _i know you didn't,_ Rhyme concedes, and then: _sorry for overreact. long day. you know i really love having her here though, right? it was just a flowerpot. no use crying over spilled milk, or spilled dirt._

 _Thanks. There's really nobody I'd rather have taking care of her, Rhyme,_ Neku assures them.

The smiley face that comes through is decidedly conciliatory. _so you're sticking with paris for a while yet, huh?_

_Shiki and Eri haven't kicked me out yet. They send hugs, by the way._

_hugs back at them. you think you're staying the whole three months?_

Neku gets up, stares out the window. His cat's okay, and he's pretty sure Rhyme really will be happy for an excuse to keep her as long as possible. Beyond that there's… really nothing beyond habit tying him to Tokyo right now. _Yeah,_ he sends at last. _I think I am._

* * *

After about fifteen minutes of friendly chatting, Rhyme bids Neku goodbye, tucks their phone back in their pocket and gives Piglet a long, thoughtful look. The little cat has completely forgotten her games in the wreckage of the flowerpot; the entire time Rhyme's been texting, she's been crouched, staring intently into the nearest corner of the kitchen, tail lashing back and forth in tense, quick snaps.

Rhyme turns their own gaze on the corner, trying to see what the cat sees. There's nothing there—but there's a weird taste of electricity in the air, bright and unsettling and sharp, and it's been getting stronger the whole time Rhyme was on the phone. Rhyme's tasted it before, plenty of times over the years, most of them when Neku was around, though he's always seemed oblivious to it. In the month he's been in Paris, the only times they've noticed it were when they were texting with him.

They don't _know_ what it is, but they have a pretty good guess.

Piglet growls, low in her throat, and sparks with startled annoyance when Rhyme reaches for her. But after the initial flinch she doesn't resist being picked up, and settles into Rhyme's arms with far more weight than a cat her size should have. Her claws sink into the sleeve of Rhyme's hoodie; Rhyme is glad the fabric is thick.

"Shh," Rhyme murmurs, scratching the cat behind her ears as soothingly as they can. "It's all right." They pause, and then raise their voice, addressing the empty air in the corner. "For the record, you're at least as appalling a creature as she is. You know that, right?"

Silence.

"I mean it. I don't know what you did now, but I'm gonna take a _guess_ —" Rhyme draws the phone back out of their pocket, waggles it in the air—"that whatever it was, it's the reason he's not coming home anytime soon. Am I wrong?"

Silence. But the electric air jumps and crackles, not quite painful in Rhyme's lungs, before settling back down as if with tangible effort.

"Yeah, well." Rhyme sighs, then shrugs. "It hurts? Welcome to the club. What do you want me to say? _Absence makes the heart grow fonder? Good things come to those who wait?_ They do, mostly, but there's a little more to it than that." They get up, carefully shifting Piglet to their shoulder as they go to get the dustpan and broom; that spilled dirt still needs to be cleaned up. "You really want something, you've got to be willing to do the hard work for it. I don't think he thinks you are."

A kind of low-grade sullen resentment seeps through the kitchen, smelling faintly of burnt coffee. Piglet's claws find their way through the shoulder of Rhyme's hoodie, and dig in.

"Anyway, it's not my business," Rhyme says, brushing up shards of the flowerpot. "And I don't know your side of the story. You've probably got your reasons; most people do. But are you going to do something about it? Or are you going to sit here scaring Neku's cat all day?"

The burnt coffee simmers, seething, and then evaporates in a puff of acrid steam.

Rhyme shakes their head, and goes on cleaning up the kitchen floor. _Gods._ If people had any idea what ridiculous creatures they really were, most of the modern world religions would be out of luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surskitty is running a [TWEWY gift exchange](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/twexwy2018/profile) for the holidays. Signups are open ‘til the 10th; come join us!


	24. Eyes

Neku pulls out his cellphone, flips the camera's selfie view on, and peers at his eyes. They're still normal. They still look normal. He makes himself turn the phone off and shove it back in his pocket; the checking has been turning into a nervous habit, and he's pretty sure if he'd actually been counting how many times he's done it over the last few days, he wouldn't like the number very much.

He's been putting off saying anything to Shiki, but he can't keep doing that, he knows he can't, and after a few false starts he gets out the words: "Hey, uh. I need to talk to you."

Shiki glances up from her sewing machine, where she's been wrestling with what has apparently been a particularly finicky shoulder seam for most of the last hour. "Good," she says, "because I need to walk away from this for a bit before I throw the machine out the window. It would deserve it, but there are people down on the sidewalk and they probably wouldn't." She slides off her bench and stands up, rolling her shoulders in circles and pulling on her fingers to stretch her wrists. "What's up?"

"Um." He draws a deep breath and reaches under the collar of his shirt to draw out the spiderweb pendant on its thin chain. "I had another visit the other day, from the local…"

He doesn't say the word _Composer_ aloud. But Shiki's expression darkens, and she nods, stepping close to get a better look at the disc.

Neku swallows. "He gave me this. It's supposed to stop some of the weird shit that's been happening to me, which—great, but he didn't really give me a choice about wearing it, and—" He scratches the back of his neck, awkward. "This is another one of those 'not really an easy way to say this' ones. Just, uh, keep an eye on me, yeah?"

Shiki's started to reach out for the pendant, but she pauses, hand hovering inches away, and gives him a troubled look. "You think it's going to do something else?"

"I don't think so. I just think it's better to—" Force a rueful smile, an unconcerned voice. "Look, just—in case. You know. If I come in with my eyes glowing and start yelling about paradise, _please_ tell me you'll knock me out? And call the police, and then take Eri and get the hell out of—"

" _Neku._ "

He stops, shuts his mouth, stares at her wordlessly. She reaches her arms out for a hug, and he hesitates for an instant and then shoves the pendant back under his shirt where it won't touch her, and falls forward, slumps against her shoulder, shuts his eyes and holds onto her as tightly as she's holding on to him.

"I've got you," she says, voice quiet and firm. "We won't let anything happen, okay? I can still throw a pretty good punch—I see any sign that you're turning into some kind of brainwashed Underground zombie, glowy eyes or no, you're going _down._ "

Neku can't help it; he laughs, shoulders shaking, suddenly so exhausted he's almost giddy. Gods, he loves Shiki. He should've known she'd understand. "Thanks," he mumbles.

He can feel her smile against the side of his face, hear it in her voice, and she hugs him a little tighter. "Any time, partner."


	25. Fire

Joshua sits at the counter of WildKat, studying a cup of coffee. 

It's not completely sensible for him to be here alone; Sanae has clear boundaries where the main cafe is concerned, which is to say it's the only place in the ward with a Reaper decal strong enough to force even Joshua down to Realground levels. But the downtune will hit a normal Reaper even harder, and Joshua doesn't want to miss Sanae when he comes back from his latest chat with the Powers That Be.

Sanae's been away for days this time, the longest he's spent up there in the ten years since all this got started. He didn't take the news about Neku's imaginative powers well, but he and Joshua haven't actually come to blows over it. Yet.

Joshua suspects they will when he gets back, which will be… well, it'll be a thing. Sanae likes playing the laid-back, affable con, but he has other faces, and at his core, the angel's as much a fan of a good trial by fire as any of his kind. In a good mood, he used to be fun to spar with, back when they still did that—the closest thing to the high of genuine danger that Joshua usually got, and the one target Joshua could ever unleash his full strength on and know he'd still have to keep fighting. 

In a bad mood… Joshua's tried, a few times over the years when he was feeling particularly desperately reckless, to bait bad-mood Sanae into a fight. He's never succeeded. He's not completely certain he would still be here if he had.

He sips his coffee and watches the clock. It's slightly before midnight when a subtle shift in the cafe's ambient music heralds Sanae's return, and Joshua spins on his stool, raising a hand in greeting. "Welcome back."

"J." Sanae gives him a tired look and turns away, slouching towards the stairs that lead up to his apartment. "I'll be over to your place in the morning. We'll talk then."

"Mm." Joshua glances pointedly back at the clock. "I'd rather now."

"Yeah, well. Don't always get what we want."

Joshua clears his throat. "It's been ten years, Sanae. You said—"

"Yeah." Sanae pauses, one foot on the bottom step. "I remember what I said. I also clearly remember saying _if you've been really good,_ boss. This? This has not been that."

"I haven't talked to him. I haven't interfered in his—don't interrupt me, Sanae. _I haven't interfered_ in his life." Joshua ignores the angel's bitter snort. "Quashing his imaginative powers would have interfered with his soul's natural growth. Not what I cared to do to my future Conductor."

"Proposed future Conductor," Sanae corrects, voice harsh. "Okay. Y'know what? Fine. I'll grant you that. But when you took steps to hide those powers from—"

"Minimally invasive steps." Joshua takes a long sip of his coffee, arches his brow at Sanae's flat stare. " _He_ could have told you, or anyone else, what was happening at any time; I wouldn't have stopped him. He chose not to. But as I understood it, the point of my leaving him alone—beyond teaching me a lesson—"

"Which you clearly learned so well," the angel mutters.

"—Was to grant him a life free of the Underground's influence." Joshua shrugs, and idly twists a strand of hair around his finger. "So I weighed the likelihood that would remain possible, should his abilities become widely obvious, against the potential harm of my very slight involvement. The latter won. I'll grant you that it might technically have been against the letter of my ban, but not, I think, against the spirit. They weren't anticipating his strength would grow so rapidly, and didn't account for the possibility when they set their rules in place."

"And that," Sanae snaps, "was not your call to make. It was—"

"Yours? Theirs? Yes, technically." Joshua draws the words out, slow and deliberate and precise. "But we already went over this bit. As I said last time: _no confidence,_ Sanae."

The angel stands where he is a moment longer, stock still, and then turns, strolls casually back, steps behind the counter, picks up a cloth and starts polishing the coffee cups in silence.

Joshua finishes his coffee in small, thoughtful sips, sets the cup down, and slides it across the bar. "Refill, please."

Sanae fetches the pot, pours, and goes back to work, his back turned on Joshua. Joshua drinks, his gaze shifting back and forth between the angel's lean form and the analog clock that hangs on the wall behind the counter, ticking away the seconds like a time bomb.

It's going on towards one, and Joshua's halfway through another refill, by the time Sanae hangs up his dishcloth. The angel turns and gives Joshua a long look. "I said we'd talk tomorrow, J."

"Yes, I heard you say that." Joshua leans back, folds his arms, and makes a show of looking pointedly up at the clock as he adds, "At eleven fifty-two p.m. yesterday."

Sanae snorts, and mutters something that even Joshua's hearing doesn't quite catch. Then he says, "You know what? All right. You really want to do this?"

Joshua meets his eyes. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

"So you are." Sanae rests his elbows on the countertop and grins, feral and gleaming. "But there's sitting back and making snide remarks, and then there's actually putting yourself out. You want Neku? _Prove it._ " His voice softens, not quite taunting. "Show me the strength of your convictions, Joshua."

And there they are.

Sanae's as good as any cat in a staring contest, when he wants to be; if Joshua looks away now, he's already lost. So he gazes back coolly, lets his lips curve up in dry and faintly scornful amusement, chuckles as if this is all absurdly beneath him. As if he hasn't been the one trying to needle Sanae into really losing his temper for—oh, nearly as long as they've known each other. "You want to _fight_ over it?"

"Well, I'd challenge you to a shooting match," Sanae drawls, and Joshua reflects that he can't, when it really comes down to it, out-sardonic his Producer any more than he can outstare him. "But I already know you've got the will to pull a trigger for the kid. That ain't gonna tell me much."

_You really want something, you've got to be willing to do the hard work for it._

Joshua sighs, lazy and put-upon, and reaches for his coffee. "Oh, all right. If I must. Pork City? Or is this a 'meet me behind the school at three' scenario?"

Sanae's grin widens, razor-sharp, a cat who's just spotted a rabbit. "Neither. We fight now. Here."

Joshua's hand stutters as it lifts his cup, nearly sends his coffee sloshing across the counter. Oh. 

The one place in the ward with a Reaper decal strong enough to keep him forcibly downtuned.

"You've been lying to me for ten years, J," Sanae says, very quietly. "Never mind the bit where you almost _started a war with France._ And we can have all that out now, or we can have it out later, or—if you really insist—you can go back to giving me the silent treatment and I'll go back to pretending we're all good. But if you want me to give a damn, right now or any time in the next few decades, about what you want? You want me to stick my neck out to the Powers That Be for you over it? Then you'll quit dancing around what you did. You'll drop the pretty excuses, and own up to the fact that you broke the rules." He leans in, folding his elbows on the counter, his face inches from Joshua's. "And if it's what you _really want,_ then you'll show me you're still willing to go after the boy even when it's not fun or convenient for you anymore. Your choice. If you get me, J."

If Joshua looks away, he's already lost.

He draws a breath, places his hands on the edge of the counter to push his stool back. Fine. He's still got his telekinesis, and his gun. Fine.

Trial by fire it is, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blargh. Still not as happy with this one as I’d like to be, but it was ultimately an “I’ve been staring at this for way too long and the whole point of doing a story made out of prompt ficlets was _not to do that_ ” kind of situation, so. There ya go.
> 
> In other news: Surskitty is hosting a [TWEWY gift exchange!](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/twexwy2018/profile) Signups are open ‘til the 10th. Come join us!


	26. Web, part 3

Neku's been wearing the spiderweb pendant that Vaugirard's Composer gave him for a couple of weeks, now. He still hasn't turned into a paradise-chasing zombie.

He's starting to be… cautiously optimistic about this. There's been a shift in the air around him, something he's never felt outside of Shibuya before: like the city's actively welcoming him, like everywhere he goes there's a smiling warmth running up from the streets and into his bones, even in the October chill. The waiters at streetside cafes greet him like a long-lost friend. Conversation's pretty limited because his French is still terrible and none of them speak Japanese, but they glance curiously at his sketchbook when they pass his table, and then curiosity usually turns into startled exclamations of enthusiasm. 

Once he would have shrunk away from that kind of attention from strangers, hunched his shoulders and lowered his head, but now… the delight is surprising, and gratifying, and infectious. And okay, maybe he's still a little wary of the chain around his neck and what that means, but maybe—maybe the web itself is something other than he thought. Not there to catch _him,_ but what was done to him, the thing that was still setting him apart after so many years. And to show him that when that thing's set gently aside, he's still part of something, connections upon connections upon connections all spidering out across a city of millions, even if it's not _his_ city.

It's been giving him some images, and he's been messing with one of them in his sketches—a spider's web overtaken, moths and crickets and beetles teeming freely along its lines, all shifting to make space when another of their kind arrives. He can't quite decide if it's a joyous picture, the insects laying claim to something that would have trapped them and making it their own, or a cynical one, all of them complacently awaiting their own destruction and inviting everyone else to join them. 

He's not sure, upon consideration, that it can't be both.

Eri looks over his shoulder at his latest attempt at capturing it, one evening while they're all chilling after supper. "Damn, that one's… kind of weird. But cool. Can I see?"

He hands it to her, and she leans close to the paper, scrutinizing the details. "What I want to know," she says at last, "is where's the spider?"

And Neku shrugs, and smiles. "Not in the picture. And, you know—I've been wondering, too. But I'm starting to think I'm okay leaving it that way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last call for Surskitty’s [TWEWY gift exchange](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/twexwy2018/profile)! Signups close tonight (Nov 10) at 8pm EST. Hope to see you there! o/


	27. Fire, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT NOTES / WARNINGS because I feel like this chapter maybe needs them:**  
>  \- Violence  
> \- Joshua being deeply unconcerned for his own health and safety, to a… well, to a degree that would be a lot more worrisome if he weren't a demigod who can heal from just about anything, but frankly it's probably a bit worrisome anyway  
> \- Sanae being more akin to an extremely pissed-off version of the fellow we meet in Another Day than to his laid-back barista face, though I hope it's been clear that's been coming for a while  
> \- _So yeah,_ violence  
>  \- (Also, they're in the Realground and there are actual injuries and blood, albeit not described in much detail)

Sanae takes his glasses off, folds them, sets them casually down. Leans forward to rest his elbows on the counter, his gaze intent. "So what'll it be, boss?"

_Show me the strength of your convictions. Show me you're willing to go after the boy, even when it's not fun for you anymore._

Joshua does note that nowhere in there did Sanae say _win the fight._ Which is probably just as well, because here? With the modulator decal pressing him flat to the Realground? This is… probably going to hurt. Sanae's watching him with the lazy malice of a cat who's cornered its prey, whose only remaining question is whether to dig in for a meal now, or spend a while playing first. If he _were_ a cat, his tail would be twitching.

Joshua mostly ignores the prickling rush of cold along his skin at that look. It's not fear, just the sharp thrill of actual risk, the first—well, not the first risk in a decade, because he's been taking risks in this whole thing with Neku since it started, but the first actual confrontation; there haven't even been any assassination attempts in a few years, though those are rarely any real challenge anyway. 

Not quite time to indulge an adrenaline high yet, though, however much his inconveniently physical Realground form thinks it's time for one, however much a part of him wants to lean into the gale and topple straight off that cliff.

He's not, hand to hand, going to be any match for Sanae, even supposing Sanae's feeling generous enough to limit himself. There's no point in pretending otherwise; he'll be snapped in half if he tries. He's still got his telekinesis, but it's weaker and less precise in the Realground than it would be higher up. He's still got his gun, tucked inside his jacket, but that's a double-sided coin; a gun is only an asset in a fight so long as one's opponent doesn't get their hands on it, and that's no certain proposition here. If Joshua's going to fire it, it had better be unexpected and it had better be point blank. Even then it's not going to do Sanae any permanent damage, but it might shift the balance for a crucial moment.

_Even when it's not fun for you anymore._

As much as they're alike in some ways, Joshua really doesn't think that he and Sanae mean the same thing when they say the word _fun._ Because this? 

_So what'll it be?_

This is going to be _fun._ Joshua's got no idea how he's going to survive, it's possible he won't, but it's going to be a hell of a rush either way. And he might even get Neku back in the bargain.

Aloud, he says in diffident tones, "It's your shop." He pushes his stool back, glances around the room in thoughtful appraisal. "No one's wrecked the furniture since—who, Minami—"

Sanae lunges.

Joshua twists sideways to his feet, gives the stool a mental shove up off the ground and straight at Sanae's face as the angel blinks straight through the counter. Sanae's will wrests the stool away from him, hurls it back, and then Joshua's skipping backwards in a complicated reel, dodging flying furniture and swipe after swipe of—all right, Noise form's hardly fair here, is it? Well—not his whole Noise form. But the claws that tip Sanae's fingers sing through the air just as sharp as in the Underground.

At least there's only one of him. So far. Joshua casts his mind out as he ducks and weaves, looks for other weapons to attach his focus to. Another stool behind Sanae. A chair off to the side. The still-hot coffee carafe. The first sharpish knife he finds. He can't hold them all at once, not for long, but if he times it right—

Two steps away from hitting the wall he feints left, tugs on the stool to bring it hurtling at the point where he expects Sanae's head to be a moment from now, and throws himself right. Sanae follows him, only a split second delayed by the feint, and wrests this missile too from Joshua's control just before it collides with his skull. Joshua hangs onto it with just enough strength to look like he's trying; he sends the rest of his energy along the strand of his focus he stuck to the carafe, yanks on it.

(Not _all_ his energy. Stay present. He ducks the stool, and the hit that comes after it, but not quite the hit that comes after that; a claw skims his shoulder and glances across his chest, and he hisses, breath harsh between his teeth.)

The carafe doesn't hit, but it doesn't need to hit directly. Joshua whips it past Sanae's head. It shatters against the wall in an explosion of glass and hot liquid, and Joshua's rewarded by a sharp curse and a brief break in the onslaught as the angel throws up a shield. Now the knife from the other side, and the chair aiming at Sanae's knees—

—But the broken glass is flying at Joshua now with force. He throws up a wall of his own, lets his grip on the knife wobble, sidesteps to avoid the table Sanae sweeps at him.

They dance at the center of a cyclone, grappling with the table and the knife and the chair and the glass and Sanae's got a broken stool leg in play now, one end jagged and splintered, whistling through the air. It's half a mental tug-of-war with too many ropes and half a juggling game because Joshua can only hold so many at once, so catch _this_ one let _that_ one go block _that_ one throw _that_ one and then of course there's the slight issue of the teleporting lion still trying to claw him in the face. Round and round, and Joshua would laugh if he had the breath, because it's _good,_ this mad scramble to stay ahead, he hasn't had this in a while and he should have admitted how much he—

—The carpet yanks itself out from under his feet.

He hits the ground hard, air knocked out of him, thinks he maybe hit his head but he wasn't quite paying attention. Sanae's on top of him, digging a sharp, bony knee into his chest, and claws rise up and fall and oh _shit,_ shit, you'll be able to heal it later, Joshua chants in his head, hearing his own yell like it's someone else as the world goes bright and burning cold. You'll be able to heal it later. Ignore that half your face is on fire and one eye is—ignore it. It's temporary.

It's temporary.

Ow.

Neku had better be damned impressed when he finds out about this, Joshua thinks dazedly. Neku had better _find out about this_ —in suitably dramatic circumstances that leave Joshua looking like a stoic martyr willing to suffer for him, obviously, look _this is what happens_ when you wander off to Paris and don't come back for months, Neku. Probably can't keep the actual injuries around until then, but maybe when he heals them he can leave a sort of subtle but noticeable scar, just enough to worry—he's drifting. Drifting from the pain, everything hazy and sluggish, and he grits his teeth and forces himself back to the present moment.

His right eye's not opening, and really that whole side of his face is just—better not thought about right now, so he carefully sections it off from the rest of his attention and shuts it away. His left eye still appears to be functional; he opens it, gingerly.

Sanae's knee is still on his chest; the angel grins down at him, not even breathing hard. Somewhere in the telekinetic whirlwind of their dance Joshua did manage to land a hit on him—not a very impressive one, but there's a scratch over the angel's eye, dark blood welling up in a row of tiny, glistening beads. Joshua watches it for a moment, fascinated in a light-headed dizzy kind of way. He's never seen Sanae bleed before, used to fighting him higher up where they're all light and sound and static. There's something deeply satisfying about it.

His right wrist is pinned down. The left is free, but that's because Sanae's other hand is at his throat instead, claws not digging in, but calmly there and at the ready. Sudden movements don't seem terribly advisable. Joshua reaches his mind out experimentally, searching for potential telekinetic weapons, but he's dizzy and the room is spinning and his focus wobbles, sliding across the surface of everything he tries to attach it to.

"So whaddya say, boss?" Sanae's tone is conversational. "We done?"

Joshua winces, takes a moment to gather his breath. He can sense the shields Sanae's holding up close around them. Not thick, but enough to deflect anything Joshua could throw at him with telekinesis just now, even if Joshua could get a good enough grip to actually pick anything up.

That leaves the gun.

All right, so get Sanae talking. Keep Sanae talking, just for a minute or two—buy time to figure this out. Joshua manages a lopsided grin, albeit possibly not his most convincing one ever. "I'm game for another round if you are."

Sanae snorts, and mutters something which isn't quite audible but sounds like it's along the lines of: _you suicidal little…_ "J, lemme make something clear, in case you're too concussed right now to pick up on it: you're not winning this fight."

The thing about the gun is that it won't require a lot of psychic force to fire, but it's going to require precision at multiple points to keep it stabilized, and he's got to be fast when he goes for it. "Neku won against you," Joshua points out, well aware that this isn't logic. The room's not spinning quite so fast, but his focus is still slippery, like everything's coated in oil. It's getting slightly better, though. Maybe. He's going to have to push the gun barrel up to aim, and he thinks he's got a grip on it, but he doesn't dare test that in case Sanae notices. "Once. The little Tin Pin one did, I mean."

The claws press against his throat, warning, then retract. Sanae's face is a curious picture, equal parts anger and bemusement and tired exasperation. "Yeah, well, for starters, I wasn't pissed at him." He pauses, and then adds, offhand: "And let's face it: you're no Neku."

Joshua almost flinches.

(An echo from a lifetime ago: _The Composer's got a hell of a lot more experience, Yoshiya, and a lot more raw firepower, but He's not you. He hasn't got your potential, your imagination. Don't underestimate that._ )

No. Sanae would say he knew the rules when he signed up to play, and Sanae would be right about that. It's about what's best for the district, always has been, and Neku _would_ be good for Shibuya. So he slips his smile back into place. "No, but he's no me, either. And the two of us working together? Don't tell me that wouldn't be something to see." Stabilize his mind, stabilize his focus. Let the smile curl, sectioned off from the pain, let the tone go mild and curious. Keep him talking. "Or are you afraid the two of us together would actually be a match for you?"

Sanae chuckles, for a moment as warm and friendly as he ever is when he's welcoming a repeat customer in. "I'd love to see the two of you try it, J." His gaze hardens, and the brief note of humor leaves his voice as quickly as it came. "But today? I'm pretty sure we're done here. I mean, you can _try_ to get up, but it ain't gonna go well for you."

Joshua's got his focus almost right, he thinks. He's only going to have an instant—point the gun up at Sanae, squeeze the grip to release the safety, pull the trigger, keep it stabilized. All has to be one movement, and it would be easy except that Sanae was probably right about the concussion. 

(He really wonders if most Players appreciate how much the whole violence thing's been _cleaned up_ for them in the Game, made neat and tidy and—stay focused.) 

It'll be likelier to work if Sanae's distracted. He drains his tone as dry as dust, meets his Producer's eyes. "You know, there's websites where they'd pay you to act like this, Sanae. If the art thing ever dries up."

Sanae's dead silent for a moment, face expressionless. Then he speaks, voice quiet: "Okay. Y'know what? You're that set on this, then tap out any damn time you feel like it, kid."

His hand leaves Joshua's throat and pulls back, ready for another strike. Joshua tugs on a nearby chair, aims it weakly at his back. Sanae smirks and reinforces his shield as his hand starts to fall.

Joshua lets the chair go, pushes the gun into position, stabilizes it, and fires.

The look of stunned surprise on Sanae's face as the bullet hits him just below the ribcage is worth it. He rocks back. Joshua _shoves_ with all his remaining mental strength and scrambles unsteadily upright, gun in his hands, fires again. Again. Sanae's on the ground and now it's Joshua's turn to follow _him_ down, no claws here but a gun to the head's just as good.

Joshua's ears are ringing, and the edges of his vision are sparking with tiny explosions. Sweat and blood trickle into the corner of his mouth, salty and warm. His hands are shaking. The mental dams he threw into place are starting to crack under strain; awareness of his injuries is starting to seep back through.

He's dimly aware, as if from a great distance, that he's grinning like a maniac. He's alive and exhausted and bleeding and half blinded and probably on the brink of collapse and _alive,_ or at least a pretty damn close approximation thereof.

It's _good._ It's so, so good.

He leans a little closer. "What do _you_ say, Mr. H?" he asks. "I look done to you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Pologies for the delay on this one. This has been... well, firstly I’m terrible at fight scenes, and secondly it was the kind of week where Monday morning started out pretty much as normal, no expectation of anything weird happening, and then by Monday midafternoon I had quit my job. It’s been an _unexpected_ sort of week, is my point.


	28. Bone

Sometimes, whatever you're doing, you've got to get back to the basics, back to the bones of it. Neku's known that for a long time about the technical side of artwork—always gotta keep the fundamentals in place—but he's starting to realize it's true about everything else, too. He thinks he lost sight of that sometime in the last decade, forever chasing ghosts.

Because the truth was there was never anything real, behind the ghosts. Not even a skeleton in the closet, underneath the piles of ridiculous frills and black gauze that he never asked for. It's time to go back to the solid things he has to build on, instead: back to what's in his own bones, and worry about putting a shiny new skin on them later. He loves Shibuya, but it's not all of him. It can't be all of him.

So he starts wandering Paris looking for street art. There are the big city-accepted murals along the Canal de L'Ourcq and Rue Oberkampf and a dozen other places, walls splashed street-to-rooftop with portraits and animals and kaleidoscopes of light and color. They're beautiful, but Neku likes the less official works too: the smaller pieces scattered like unexpected treasures in alleys and corners through the city, doomed to be scrubbed out as soon as someone gets to them, if they're not graffitied over first by rival artists or kids screwing around. It's all ephemeral, everybody's codes and values and visions clashing, competing for space and attention. Everything changing all the time, on the surface, tearing down and reimagining and rebuilding, but what's underneath endures.

There's one artist—he thinks it's all one artist—whose stuff he starts seeing around who puts her work up in paper instead of paint, drawing and cutting out forms and pasting them to the walls. It wouldn't even last if people left it alone—she doesn't seal it over, so the weather would get it in days at best—but they never do leave it alone, and the most Neku ever sees of her work is torn and tattered fragments of women's faces, half the time scribbled over with someone else's paint. What's left always looks like it must have been beautiful, and it makes his chest ache that he never gets to see the whole of it, untouched, but then he thinks: maybe that's the point, because she's got to know it's going to happen, every time. A moment of beauty, and then the world tears off the skin you've spent all your time so carefully shaping and painting and pasting in place, and you're back to the bones. Again. And then you start over.

Neku hasn't done any street art in years, and never outside of Shibuya. In Shibuya he always knew that even if the gods of the street weren't talking to him anymore, his work had their tacit approval. Anywhere else, it felt like he was intruding on something he had no right to.

But Shibuya can't be all of him, and Paris has welcomed him in. So on his way between the borrowed studio and Shiki and Eri's apartment one evening, he detours to into a shop and comes out with a bag full of cans of spray paint.

It's time to get back to the bones of who he is, and of who he wants to be.


	29. Hair

Eri loves to play with Shiki's hair, tangling her fingers in the strands, twisting and braiding and unbraiding. She's on the couch just now and doing just that; Shiki sits on the floor in front of her, leaning back against her knees, with her eyes closed and a soft smile on her face. For a while they're quiet. They've spent the afternoon poring over details of a design, and it's nice to just—not talk for a while. 

"Mm." Shiki's voice is drowsy, luxuriant; she tilts her head catlike as Eri goes on stroking her hair. "This is nice. Thank you."

Eri tickles the tip of her ear lightly, teasing. "You don't have to thank me."

"I want to, though," Shiki murmurs. "I'm lucky, you know that? I'm really…" She pauses, a faint catch in her voice. "I'm really lucky."

"You're in Paris with the girl you love. Of course you are." Eri grins, but then pauses, taps her fingers on the top of Shiki's head. "Hey," she says, more softly. "You okay?"

"Yeah. No. I don't know—well, yeah. Mostly."

Eri waits. It took a long time for her to learn to wait for Shiki, not to push and pry. Her fingers go back to tracing gentle circles over Shiki's scalp.

"I'm just—" Eri can't see her face from here, but she feels it in her fingertips as Shiki furrows her brow. "Sometimes I feel guilty."

Eri's hands slow at their work. "For what?"

"For—I've got everything. I've got _you_ and we're doing what we always wanted to and getting paid for it, and getting paid _well_ for it, and we're—" She cuts off with a soft, rueful breath of laughter. "Do you ever just—feel like you should be able to protect people?"

 _You,_ Eri doesn't say. _I want to protect you. The rest of the world isn't my job._ Not that she doesn't care about anyone else, because she does, but they're not her heart, not in the same way. But Shiki's always been the fiercer of the two of them, for all that people read her as the quiet awkward one. "This about Neku?" Eri ventures. He's been doing better, pulling back out of the bleak, silent mood he sank into a few weeks ago, but she can't blame Shiki for worrying. Maybe someday she'll find out what the whole story is there, but maybe not; she's been friends with him almost as long as Shiki has, but she knows there are things she still doesn't know, things that neither Shiki nor Neku himself will talk about. There, too, she's learned not to pry.

Shiki lets out a long breath, doesn't answer for a while. Then a deep breath in, and then: "Actually, I was thinking about going back to self-defense classes."

Whatever Eri was expecting, it wasn't that. Her hands still in surprise, and she leans to peer over her wife's shoulder, trying to get a look at her face. "Is there—Shiki, did something—"

"No! It's not—no," Shiki says hastily, her voice tinged with embarrassment. "Nothing happened. It's not like I'm expecting to need it. I just—hm." Her face is turning slightly pink. "I just was thinking about how it's always the things you don't expect. And I'm out of practice, and I spend so much time sitting these days, and I just—I like knowing I _could_ do things if I needed to, you know?" Rueful, self-deprecating humor slips into her tone. "Besides, sometimes punching something is just really cathartic, I think."

Eri laughs. "Amen to that."

Shiki tilts her head back, craning her neck to look up at Eri upside-down, her eyes dubious. "It's not weird?"

"Of course it's not weird," Eri says, poking her in the shoulder to punctuate her words. "It's cool, and brave, and tough." She grins, leans in, and adds in confidential tones, "And sexy as _hell._ I am totally here to watch you punch things."

Shiki laughs a little, and the tension starts to ease out of her again. "Yeah?"

"Count on it," Eri assures her. Whatever's got Shiki looking for that kind of catharsis, there won't be any getting the story until Shiki's good and ready, but she adds, "And you know I'm here if you want to talk, too." Because sometimes, even after years, Shiki needs reminding of that. "Right?"

"Yeah." Shiki's voice is quiet. "Thanks. But I think… I don't, right now. Sorry."

"That's why I said _if._ " Eri won't pretend it doesn't frustrate her sometimes, but—she's pushed too hard on Shiki's secrets once or twice, and she thinks those times are the closest she's ever come to losing her. It's not worth it. "Anything I can do right now?"

"Yeah," Shiki says again. "Go back to playing with my hair, please?"

Eri smiles, and does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still a bit uncertain about this one—I haven’t actually written Shiki and Eri together all that much before, and Eri’s point of view not at all—but I wanted them to have at least a little time separate from Neku, and I wanted to follow up at least a little on Shiki’s earlier comment to Neku that she could “still throw a pretty good punch.” So—here we are.


	30. Black

The alley mouth is pitch black. Shiki peers into it dubiously, the lights of the main street shops and streetlamps casting shifting gold and green shadows across her face. "Neku, I don't know."

"It's all right. I promise." Neku doesn't know why he knows that, entirely, but the street's been warning him lately when he's walking into trouble. The other night he was out on a quiet street near the studio, just about to start a quick piece, when a high note pinged at the back of his mind. His spray cans and mask were back in his pack and he was walking away thirty seconds before the police came around the corner.

(Though he's been finding lately that he doesn't always have to worry about the police. The sense of belonging he's felt running up through the soles of his feet seems to be broadcasting off him, somehow; whatever he does, people seem to assume that he's supposed to be doing it. It's weird. He's trying not to rely on it lasting.)

He holds his hand out, and asks: "Trust me?"

And at that question, she doesn' t hesitate, only nods and takes Neku's hand. His cell phone flashlight spills a pool of silver light ahead of them as they step into the alley; he turns the light up to the back wall of a currently-empty building, and Shiki stops, staring.

He kept the web motif he's been playing with lately, though he modified it, the strands connecting and dividing swirls of chaotic color—here a suggestion of an eye, there the outline of a wing, quick jumbled impressions of people and abstract shapes blurring together. It's the biggest thing he's done in years, and he didn't quite trust his newfound invisibility to keep him safe for the time it would take him fussing over the details of a swarm of variegated insects. This was quicker.

But still effective, judging by the look on Shiki's face. "Oh," she murmurs, sounding struck. "Oh, wow. That's beautiful, Neku."

He can't help himself; he beams from ear to ear. There's something in this moment that makes him feel like he really is fifteen again, just from a different vantage point this time: standing here in the dark and looking at the wonder on someone else's face as she stares up at the wall, and knowing: _I did that._

He wonders if he ever would have believed it of himself, back then.

She stands and stares and smiles for a long time, still squeezing his hand. Then they turn away, back to the main street.

The thing about street art is it won't last. Neku knows that. It could be gone by tomorrow, it could survive a few weeks, it might make it to the new year at the outside, but it won't last forever.

In the meantime, there's something magical about knowing that even if he can't see it right now, even if only two people in the world know it's there, the black alley behind him hides a world of life and color.

* * *

Neku thinks maybe Vaugirard approved of the mural, because the day after it goes up he's got an email from a friend of a friend of Eri's who just saw a piece Eri's friend commissioned from Neku back when he first got here, and could they talk?

So they go for coffee, except it turns out it's not just the two of them. By the end of that conversation Neku's been introduced to a couple of reputable gallery owners and an equally reputable agent who all have their eyes on his work. Nobody's made any decisions on anything and Neku's going to have to take a little time to process all this and he's not sure how much time that will be because he's feeling kind of light-headed right now, thanks, but he leaves with several new email addresses and phone numbers in his contact list. This has _got_ to be somebody pulling strings, somewhere, but Neku's… thinking maybe he won't question it.

But there are other things he has to figure out first.

For starters, he's known all along he was going to have to go home to Shibuya eventually, and _eventually_ ends up being ten days after the mural's done. He hasn't quite run out the three months yet, but it's getting close enough, and he thinks… he thinks he's ready.

Shiki and Eri both hug him tightly at the airport, and order him to come back soon. In a moment while Shiki's distracted by a display of touristy advertisements in the entryway, Eri pulls Neku aside, takes a deep breath, and lowers her voice. "Hey. Look, I know…" She bites her lip. "I know there are things I don't know. And I figure they're not my business, or you or Shiki would tell me, so I'm not gonna pry, okay?"

Neku swallows. "Yeah. Thanks." He's not sure what else to say to that.

Her eyes scan his face, searching. "I just want to say, whatever's been going on for you, I hope it gets better. And I know you love Shibuya, but I hope… I hope you know you'll always have other places to go, if you need to."

He nods, words sticking in his throat, and she holds her arms out for another hug, squeezes him tight. Shiki comes back, and it turns into a group hug with the three of them, and finally, reluctantly, he disentangles himself.

Eri's still watching him. "Take care of yourself, Neku. Okay?"

"I'm gonna try," he manages. "I think… I think it's going to go better. I think I got some things figured out while I was here."

And sometimes you've got to walk away whether you want to or not, so he gives them a smile and a final wave, and heads for security.

* * *

There's something eerie about looking out the window of an airplane at night over the ocean. Neku's not sure why; it's just a black square. But he keeps thinking there should be city lights down there, if he looks hard enough. Keeps going back to look, straining his eyes, for something that's just—not going to happen.

There's probably something to learn, there.

He pulls the shade down over his window, and pulls out a book instead.

* * *

The flight goes smoothly, gets in on time, and Neku gets back to his apartment building just before midnight. He stands out on the sidewalk under a flickering streetlight, staring up at it.

It's okay. He's going to be okay. He can do this.

The elevator bell dings at the third floor, and he steps off, hauling his suitcase behind him. He stands outside his apartment door and shuts his eyes and just breathes. Lets everything go black for a moment longer, lets himself stay in that place.

It's _okay._ He's not some kind of Chosen One, and that's… there's still a pang at that thought, sharper now that he's back here than it was in France, but it's all right. He doesn't have to spend the rest of his life tied to something that happened to him a decade ago, when he was a stupid, angry, lost kid. He doesn't have to keep waiting for someone who's never coming back, someone who was barely there to begin with, someone who—the darkness behind his eyes sparks with red and gunshots, and he makes himself back off from that thought and just breathe until everything fades again.

He's going to be okay. He’s got some serious prospects, after that cup of coffee; life will go on. Hell, maybe he'll actually start dating, now that he doesn't have to wonder when Joshua's going to get around to turning up again. (Maybe. Though the uncomfortable twist in his stomach makes him think, in a brief rueful burst of self-awareness, that what he's probably actually going to do is find a new set of excuses not to.)

It's time for him to stop staring into the black for things that aren't there, and turn the light on to see what is.

He opens his eyes.

He takes a deep breath and rummages in his pocket for his key. His apartment door unlocks with a quiet click and he pushes it open, automatically reaching for the light switch just inside.

The light's already on.

"Hey there, Neku." Joshua glances up from his seat on the couch and raises a hand in greeting. A crooked grin spreads across his face. "How was Paris?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand there they are.
> 
> One more to go, at least for now. It’s likely to be a longish one so will probably take me a few more days.


	31. Together, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Belated happy New Year! I meant this to be up a month ago, but then life happened, non-fanfic-related deadlines happened, holidays happened, I got sidetracked by the TWExWY gift exchange, and here we are.
> 
> Also, I lied. This isn't the last chapter. Neku had too many Feelings to sort through, and Joshua had too many bombshells to drop and boundaries to utterly ignore, for me to fit it all into one reasonably-sized chapter. So! Have a part 1.
> 
>  **Content notes:** If you're guessing this is probably a bit where punching happens, that's a good guess. This was never going to be a particularly happy reunion.

_How was Paris?_

The question hangs in the center of Neku's living room like a bomb about to explode.

The worst bit of it—the _worst_ bit of it, Neku thinks as he stares at the apparition smiling at him from the couch, is that he's not actually surprised. He's not remotely fucking surprised, because of course this is how it goes. Of course Joshua shows up now, all smiling innocence and _How was Paris, Neku?_

Neku gives Joshua a flat stare, kicks his shoes off, and walks past him, hauling his suitcase behind him into the bedroom. He shuts the door behind him and throws the suitcase on the bed. He looks at it for a long, blank moment, thinking about unpacking, and then pulls his phone out of his pocket to check the time. It's five past midnight. He'll unpack after he's (a) gotten some sleep, (b) had some food, and (c) either kicked Joshua out or gotten murdered. Not in that order.

He sits heavily down on the bed and buries his face in his hands and just stays there for a moment, trying to breathe, trying to be still, because he thinks he might explode if he moves. He wants to scream, wants to kick something, wants to find something good and breakable to throw at the wall and hear it smash.

It's also five past midnight, and there's an elderly lady living in the apartment above him who would probably call the police if she woke up to that kind of noise coming through her floor, particularly after his place has spent the last three months empty. And gods, the police are a tempting thought, but the odds that they'd be able to do anything about Joshua…

…No. There are too many ways that calling in backup could go horribly, horribly wrong. Against someone who can steal memories with a snap of his fingers and stop bullets in midair, there's not actually a lot that could go right.

Neku's shoulders shake and he realizes he's crying silently, from anger and frustration and exhaustion and—not fear. He's not afraid of Joshua, he's never been afraid of Joshua, he's just… never going to get away from this shit, is he? Chase that carrot until it's just in reach, sneak a single bite, and then whoops, no—just kidding. Back to the scramble, and better luck next time.

He lets himself cry. Better to get it out now; this conversation's going to be hell enough without that factored into the bargain.

When he's done he wipes his face off and takes one deep breath, and then another, and then another, and then stands up and opens the door and marches back into the living room. Joshua's still on the couch, leaning back, one hand fiddling idly with the long strands of hair that hang around his face.

"So," Neku says. "Took you long enough."

"Yes, well." Joshua clears his throat, and utterly fails at looking abashed. "It turns out when you shoot people, there's paperwork." 

"Paperwork." Neku thinks he could balance an egg on his own voice right now, it's that level. "Ten years worth of paperwork, huh? Man, that must have sucked."

"Mm. Well. Paperwork and a certain amount of shouting," Joshua concedes. 

"Go on," Neku says. Levelly.

A sigh. "And then when they're done shouting, they ground you and start monitoring all your phone calls. Apparently."

A hoot of incredulous laughter bursts out of Neku's throat before he can stop it. Not that he tries. "They _ground_ you. They ground _you?_ Oh, man, that's great." Nor does he try to stop the biting, bitter sarcasm that slips into his tone as he adds: "What are you, fifteen?"

Joshua's lips press into a thin line. "Details aside—"

"And who the hell are _they,_ Composer?" Neku barrels ahead, ignoring him. "I thought Shibuya was supposed to dance to your tune. Who gets to send _you_ to your room? And do I get to meet them? Because—"

"Ah. _They,_ unfortunately, are people I can't tell you about," Joshua says, "or I'm going to be even more grounded."

"Oh, good." Neku thinks the grin that splits his face is maybe edging towards manic, but he also thinks that doesn't actually give a shit. " _Definitely_ tell me, then."

"Neku—"

" _I fucking waited for you._ "

It's not quite a shout because a part of Neku's brain is still trying not to wake up Mrs Saito upstairs, but he puts all the force of a shout into it, and miracle of miracles, it shuts Joshua up for a moment. Neku strides towards him, propelled on waves of sheer rage, grabs him by the shoulders, hauls him to his feet. It's easier than it should be, and Neku almost overbalances himself with the effort he's put into it; Joshua's light as feathers, and he doesn't fight, only creases his brow slightly and studies Neku's face as if it's a puzzle.

Neku stares back at him. Up close, there's a very faint network of scars slicing across Joshua's right eye and down his cheek—though the eye itself looks fine, and in the same breath that Neku wonders what happened there, he brushes the wonder away, angry at himself for caring, even for a second. "I waited at Hachiko," he bites out. "I asked Mr. H. I wrote you notes. I _looked_ for you. I—" A pause to gulp breath, but now that he's started, he can't stop. "I've had ghosts redecorating my apartment and making over my wardrobe and I've been seeing things and hearing things and I—and nobody could even be fucking bothered to—I had to go to fucking _Paris_ to find out that shit wasn't from you. I went through the pockets of every goddamn shirt, looking for—for anything, and it wasn't even from you."

He digs his fingers in, punctuating the words, doesn't really mind the way Joshua's face tenses at the pressure. Joshua draws a deep breath and opens his mouth, and Neku shakes his head and rushes on:

"And I've had a long flight, and I just got home, and it's after midnight, and you think you can just break into my apartment and ask _How was Paris_ and I'm supposed to be—what, happy to see you? No. Y'know what? Fuck you." He doesn't quite shove as he lets go of Joshua's shoulders, steps back, and jabs a finger at the door. "Get out."

Joshua folds his arms over his chest, raises his eyebrows, one slightly higher than the other. "No."

"I mean it," Neku snaps. "I'm not telling you again."

"That's sensible of you," Joshua says, "since it's not going to accomplish anything. Neku, we need to talk."

"Oh, now we need to talk." Neku throws his hands up, tugs at his hair in exasperation. "We needed to talk ten years ago. We needed to talk when my closet got invaded by the ghosts of gothic lolita past. We needed to talk before I went to Paris and got accosted by the local supernatural police for almost causing an international incident. That was when we needed to talk, Josh. Now? Not so much. And it's late, and I need food and sleep, and you are not invited to join me for either of those things, so we've got a choice here: you leave, or I punch you in the face and throw you out."

Which is probably a stupid thing to say to the god of the city, but he's past caring.

Joshua tucks his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, rocks back on his heels, and gives a theatrical sigh, glancing up and away, briefly, in a way that's not quite an eyeroll but isn't quite not an eyeroll, either. "Look, I realize you're having some feelings right now, Neku—"

Neku punches him.

The hit lands with a solid thud. Joshua staggers backwards and lands back on the couch. For a moment Neku's frozen, and all he can hear is the ringing in his ears. He just punched Joshua. He just _punched Joshua._ Oh, hell. He's dead. He's so very fucking dead, and he's going to spend the entirety of his afterlife yelling at Joshua at the top of his lungs for it, which will be some small consolation, but still. Dead, and he was just getting shit sorted out, and Shiki's not going to take it well and—

Joshua laughs. It's not the smug chuckle Neku's used to, but a rueful, almost self-deprecating kind of sound as he winces and prods gingerly at his cheek. "Well. I've had worse of late, I suppose. You're out of practice, Neku—that wouldn't have put a dent in the Noise." One corner of his mouth turns upward, and there's something like genuine humor in his eyes as he adds, dryly, "Was it good for you, at least?"

Neku snorts, and then he thinks he needs to sit down for a moment, so he does, heavily, next to Joshua. As he flops back against the back of the couch he hears himself say: "Dunno. Tell you what, let me try it a few more times and get back to you on that."

Another laugh, this one a little more the kind that Neku expects from him. "Now, now. I promised Sanae I'd let you have one. Don't get greedy."

" _Greedy,_ says the guy who shot me." Neku lets out a long, exhausted breath, stares at the ceiling, and thinks: Sanae. "Mr H knows you're here?" _Thanks a lot for the warning, Mr H. Thanks a whole fucking lot._

"Oh, yes. He said to tell you to stop by WildKat sometime when he's open." Joshua's voice is light and friendly as ever, as if making small talk with someone whose opening conversational gambit involved slugging him in the face is a day-to-day occurrence for him. Which, now that Neku thinks about it, isn't outside the realm of possibility. "He wants to hear all about Paris. Which is to say, now that the whole—hm— _thing_ about your imaginative powers has gotten out, he wants to re-size up his competition with a little more care and attention this time, and sell you overpriced coffee and doughnuts while he's doing it."

Neku snorts. "Competition? Yeah, right."

"Just stating the facts, Neku."

Neku looks at that thought for a moment, and starts feeling the same dizziness he got in the Paris coffeeshop, though he's not sure if that's from the Mr-H-competitor thing or the just-punched-a-god thing. Either way he shakes his head and retreats. "So about those imaginative powers. Were you ever planning to tell me?" He glances sidelong at Joshua. "Or did you figure you'd just watch me stomp around shouting at the air for the rest of my life, and laugh about it?"

"I told you, I was grounded." Joshua turns sideways on the couch to face him, draping one elbow over the back and propping his chin on his hand. "And under very clear orders to leave you alone or—well."

"Right. And now you're not? Now, just as I get back in the country, just when I've found out, _just_ when I'm getting my act together and maybe actually—I don't know, moving on?" Neku twists his fingers into the hem of his shirt to stop himself from making fists. "Because I gotta tell you, Josh, that's really convenient timing for your excuse to wear off, don't you think?"

This is waved away almost irritably. "No, obviously the timing of my visit isn't coincidental, Neku; no bonus points for observation there. But ask yourself: is this actually any more convenient for me than it is for you?"

Neku gives him a sharp look, sees only blank innocence looking back at him. "I mean, Josh, I'm not in your space uninvited at midnight, so I'm gonna go with yes."

"You didn't go to great trouble to visit only to be met with a fist to the face, either."

"Yeah, well, if your great trouble had included taking five seconds to text and let me know you were coming—"

"—Then for all I know you'd be staying in a hotel in Narita tonight, Neku."

Neku lets out a breathless, despairing laugh and thuds his head gently against the back of the sofa. "And the fact that you're aware of that, and you're here, speaks volumes. No." Even without looking at him he can _feel_ Joshua about to open his mouth, and he holds his hand up between them, palm flat in Joshua's face. "Interrupt me and I will punch you again. I don't even care if you shoot me for it, at this point. Just—shut up. If we need to talk that fucking badly, then I'm going first, because anything you have to say has already waited ten years. You— _hey._ "

He swats at Joshua's arm, but Joshua has already reached past his hand and smoothly hooked one finger under the thin silver chain of the spiderweb necklace Neku's still wearing. Neku grabs his wrist and shoves, but Joshua's stronger than he looks, and Neku's tired and at an awkward angle; Joshua twists his hand and gives it a sharp yank, and Neku's grip breaks. The chain—now twined twice around Joshua's index finger—pulls against the side of his neck as Joshua slides himself closer and leans in, eyes intent.

"For starters," Joshua murmurs, one corner of his mouth turning up, "you haven't had _this_ for ten years."

For an instant they're both still, faces less than a foot apart with their gazes locked, Neku frozen in startlement but glowering fiercely and Joshua wearing a knowing smirk like the self-satisfied asshole he clearly still is, the chain taut between them. Neku swallows, heat rising in his face. It's probably some stupid psychic Composer thing, imprinting or some equally messed-up shit, but Joshua's still pretty in an obnoxious, smug, punchable way, and the faint scars below his eye don't actually mess up the view at all, and if Neku's wondering where those scars came from it's only because he'd really like to high-five whoever did it. He tells himself that.

Then Joshua flicks his gaze away, narrows his eyes and turns his attention back to the chain so wholly that Neku might as well be a mannequin, there for display only. He gives the chain a gentle tug sideways to fish the pendant out from under Neku's shirt.

Yeah, okay—no. Momentary paralysis broken, Neku grabs the chain and jerks back on it with one hand, and again shoves at Joshua's wrist with the other; he's rewarded by a brief, startled hiss as the chain tightens around Joshua's finger before pulling free, and he hopes, vindictively, that it took a little skin with it. It probably didn't, Joshua's skin is probably impervious to damage, but a guy can hope. "For starters," Neku snaps, "that's none of your fucking business."

"Shibuya is my business, Neku. You're part of Shibuya." And Joshua tilts his head, something almost wistful in his expression. "Or has Paris been making you offers you can't refuse, along with his gifts of jewelry?"

Neku swallows and looks away as he stuffs the pendant back under his shirt. He can't deal with that expression on Joshua's face. Can't deal at all, because if he's totally honest it's a look he spent years _wanting_ to see on Joshua's face—wanting to think that everything that happened, everything he went through, it meant something—and if Joshua's holding out anything at all that Neku wants, then it's only to distract from the knife in his other hand. Neku knows that. "If he has, that's none of your business either. I don't belong to you." 

Joshua says nothing, only sits back and folds his arms and regards him in silence, head tilted to one side. As if he's a child, Neku thinks, watching a toy that's just stepped off its shelf of its own accord, and he hasn't decided what to do about it yet.

Neku shakes his head, too tired for… any of this shit. "Look, even if you were really totally cut off from talking to me for _ten years_ —which I'm not saying I buy—then what, you couldn't even send one of your people with a note? You've got people, right? I mean: _Hey, he's gonna be out of touch for a few years. Nothing personal. By the way, that shit with your wardrobe reinventing itself was you, not him._ I'm just saying these would have been good things to know, Josh."

"Mm." It's a mulling sound, a small, thoughtful hum that Joshua rolls around his mouth. "Yes, I suppose it would seem that way. Neku—a question for you."

Neku scrubs at his face wearily. "Are you even going to pretend to answer any of mine?"

"Not right now, no. Maybe later—if you're good." Joshua waits in calm, indifferent silence until Neku's stopped gritting his teeth, and then goes on quietly: "All those incidents over the years. Your wardrobe, the carpet, the brand-new shiny black Xperia you somehow mistook for my old orange flip phone—"

Neku can't stop himself from flinching, glancing over again despite his determination not to look at him. "You saw that one?"

"—And the note about the vest," Joshua says, ignoring this, "and the times you thought you heard voices. All of those incidents, Neku—they weren't at all convenient for you. I do understand that. And you asked me for answers, over and over, and never received them." He lets out a very soft, almost wondering laugh. "So here's my question: why didn't you ask Mr H?"

"I—" Neku falters, surprised. "I just—should I have?"

It's not like he never thought about it. Of course he thought about it, because if anyone could have offered him help, Mr H could have. But something always held him back, and he's not sure he can put it into words, particularly not with Joshua's gaze on him, steady and silent. At last he manages, "Mr H used to get kind of… weird, whenever I asked about you." He swallows, rubs at his eyes. "So I stopped asking, eventually. I guess I thought—look, I don't know what his whole deal is, but I know when I first met him he said he watched over the Game, right? And I… don't know. I thought you—I thought maybe—"

He can't say it, can't say: _if he didn't know, if you were reaching out the only way you could—_ because yeah, of course he wondered if something happened after the Game. Of course he wondered when Joshua didn't show and didn't show and _didn't show_ if maybe something had happened to him— _if you weren't supposed to be contacting me, I didn't want to get you in trouble._

He can't say it, now or ever. Can't admit that he cared, can't admit that he worried, even as angry as he was about everything Joshua pulled. Anyway, the idea of Mr H getting Joshua in trouble is absurd—he's an artist, for crying out loud, he's a popular artist who runs a coffee shop and just… sort of happens to know everything because sure, why not—and Joshua would just laugh at that idea, undoubtedly. 

(Except maybe he wouldn't, because apparently he's been _grounded_ for the last ten years, and maybe that's the work of some shadowy figures from on high or maybe it's… not, and if it's not, who's it going to be, if not someone who stands on the sidelines and watches and knows everything? And Neku doesn't think he can deal with those implications right now, so it's probably best not to say any of it out loud.)

(And getting Joshua in trouble was only half the story anyway, wasn't it? But he can't even look at the other half, with Joshua sitting here being so infuriatingly himself. Inconvenience doesn't begin to describe the decade of weirdness that Joshua just summed up so casually, but it was weirdness that meant something, or at least Neku thought it did.

(And it did mean something. Just… not what he thought.)

The words tangle and grow thorns and stick in his throat, and he shuts his eyes and turns his face away to avoid the weight of Joshua's gaze. "Look," he mumbles, "you're a mindreader, aren't you? If you really want to know, just—pull it out of my head, why don't you?"

Joshua sighs. "But then I wouldn't get to hear you say it. You were the one who wanted an opportunity to talk, Neku."

"What I want is sleep. And then to go down to the place on the corner for breakfast. And for—" _You to go away,_ he almost says, and then an image presents itself in his mind: Joshua saying _oh, all right,_ and vanishing, and then—never coming back.

Again.

Neku takes a deep, shuddering breath, and tries to get hold of himself. "What I want," he says flatly, "is for you to listen, and answer my questions, and quit trying to control the damn conversation. And I would really like to have this conversation about a week from now. With warning." 

Joshua's laugh is soft and low. "For whatever it's worth, I'm actually with you on that last point. You're far easier to talk to when you're rested. I'm afraid, though, that my keepers had other ideas." Neku looks at him, brow creased, and Joshua shrugs. "I suppose I may as well show you."

Joshua's hand digs into his pocket, and comes up holding a new iPhone in a glittery purple case. He thumbs it on, taps something on the screen, and then holds it out for Neku to see.

Joshua has scrolled down to hide the message's sender, and the bulk of its contents, but the visible portion reads:

 _Time limit: Twelve hours from the time Neku Sakuraba returns to the country._

Neku stares at it for a moment, mouth open, breath gone. Then Joshua returns the phone to his pocket, and Neku looks up at his face and is met with a wry grimace and a shrug. 

"You…" Neku swallows. "You're in a Game. You're in a _Game?_ " 

Joshua holds his left hand up, palm out, and there's the timer, red and black digits ticking down. 

Eight hours, fifty-one minutes, and twenty-five seconds. 

Twenty-four seconds. 

Twenty-three… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Yeah._ So I'll just be sitting over here with my cup of tea in good old 'thisisfine.jpg' fashion as I work on part 2, shall I?
> 
> Meanwhile, if you haven't read the six fanfics that got posted for the [TWExWY gift exchange](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/twexwy2018), you should! I will make no judgment re: the quality of my own contribution, but the other five are lovely.


	32. Together, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this took longer than planned. Apologies. And we're still not quite done, because Neku and Joshua are... well, Neku and Joshua. (One of these days I will learn to just start out by budgeting twice as much space as I expect their arguments to take.) But--two more chapters after this. The next one is largely written, I just need to do a bit more polishing, and the last will be considerably simpler and mainly a question of giving everyone a little much-needed breathing space.
> 
> Many thanks for the kind and enthusiastic comments I've received (on this fic and others). Sometimes my brain gets kind of scattered and I have trouble responding; will be working on some very belated catching up there. But please know they've all meant a lot to me.

_"What do you say, Mr H?" Joshua's arms are shaking with the effort of holding up the gun; the grip is slick with sweat; he's grinning from ear to ear. "I look done to you?"_

_From behind him, a hand lands on his shoulder, and a low, feminine voice purrs: "Actually…"_

_Joshua's finger squeezes convulsively down on the trigger, but it's locked in place, and he can feel the force of Sanae's psychokinesis closing around the weapon, half an inch away from wrenching it out of his hand._

_Oh._

_Keep fighting when it's not fun for you anymore, Sanae said, and—oh. This—_ this _is what he meant, isn't it?_

_Sanae leans in, and her breath is hot against his ear as she drawls, "Absolute last chance to back down and say sorry, kiddo. That was a hell of a shot, but you've got nothing left."_

_Joshua's out of options; he's dizzy and hurting and exhausted, and it hits him that in this moment he really doesn't want to goad Sanae any further than he already has._

_He doesn't_ want _to._

_The realization's a strange, giddy warmth bubbling up in his chest, a relief from a force he hadn't realized was pulling on him._

_"C'mon, J," Sanae says, more quietly now. "Make nice, and this'll go a whole hell of a lot easier on you."_

_And Joshua almost laughs from the freefall lightness of it as he opens his mouth and says, simply: "No."_

* * *

The timer swims in Neku's vision. Eight hours, fifty-one minutes, twenty seconds. Nineteen. Eighteen. 

He shuts his eyes, but the numbers are burned into the backs of his eyelids, still ticking down. _Seventeen. Sixteen._

He opens his eyes, tries to breathe; his lungs don't pull in enough air. "Okay. Okay. What do you—" Breathe. He's back on his feet, pacing the length of the carpet, missed the bit where he got up from the couch but here he is. "What do you have to do? What do you need from me? If you're in a Game, why are you _here?_ Why didn't you tell me from the start—"

"Neku. Breathe."

Neku rounds on him. "Why are you in a Game?"

Joshua shrugs, and meets his eyes calmly. "Because I wanted to see you."

Neku freezes.

"There's that look," Joshua murmurs, a quiet laugh just under the surface of his voice.

"Shut up," Neku snaps, and runs his fingers through his hair distractedly. "Joshua, I'm serious."

"So am I." Joshua leans back on the couch and kicks his feet up on Neku's coffee table. " _You waited,_ you say, as if you're the only one. After what happened in Paris, I hoped everyone would see it wasn't feasible to go on keeping you sequestered away from the Underground anymore, but you weren't the only one who had some strong feelings about that whole mess." He studiously fails to acknowledge the glare Neku shoots at him. "So, fingers were pointed. Blame was assigned. The upshot was that my suspension became more or less indefinite."

"You poor thing," Neku says levelly. He shoves his hands into his pockets in an effort to keep his fingers from twitching into fists.

Joshua ignores this. "That wasn't going to be useful to either one of us, obviously, so I argued a bit. Eventually they threw their hands up and said: 'Fine, if you're going to be like that about it,' and they dropped me down to the Realground for a Game." He smiles, careless and cheerful, as if this was some great victory. "And here we are."

"Here we are," Neku repeats. He's going to strangle Joshua. He's really, honestly going to strangle Joshua. He jams his hands deeper into his pockets. "In a Game."

"No—here we are, in your apartment, having a chat," Joshua corrects him fastidiously. "I'm in a Game, Neku. You're not."

Yeah. Right. Neku's not, except Joshua's _here,_ so how fucking long is that going to last? "Like hell we're just talking." Neku's fingers have found a loose thread at the bottom of his pocket, and he's tugging on it so hard that the whole thing's going to unravel if he's not careful. "I'm not standing here and letting you die, so—"

"Neku—"

He was supposed to be done with this shit, he wants to scream. "—Look, can we just fast-forward through the stupid dance and the, the smug—"

"Neku."

"— _bullshit,_ and—I don't care, okay?" Not true, he knows it as he says it, but there's a _Game_ and the silent tick of the timer is crashing in his ears and it's bringing up all the worst parts of him, ages-old hurts crashing back on top of new ones. "I don't fucking care. I hate your guts. But I'm just that much of a sucker, and we both know it, so skip the games. Those games. You win. What do you—"

" _Neku._ " And now Joshua's in front of him, one hand firm on Neku's shoulder, the other reaching to grasp Neku's chin and turn his face towards him. "Look at me. No, _look at me._ Take a breath. The mission's taken care of, all right? I don't need anything from you."

Neku snaps his mouth shut, stares at Joshua in numb, light-headed silence, takes a breath. "Taken care of," he echoes. 

"Yes. For the moment." Joshua squeezes Neku's shoulder slightly, and one corner of his mouth turns up. "Anyway, it's not _that_ important. My life's not actually on the line for this one. At present."

Neku stares at him for a moment, takes another breath, and then he's slumped over, hands on his knees and spots in his vision, winded like he's just run up a dozen flights of stairs. He wonders, distantly, if this is what a panic attack feels like. Or a heart attack. "Next time," he manages, "maybe lead with that, asshole."

"Oh, let me have a _little_ smug bullshit." Joshua's smile is audible. "I meet so few people who don't want me dead."

"I might feel sorrier for you if there weren't some obvious reasons for that," Neku mutters.

Joshua pats him on the shoulder. "Sit down, Neku. Relax. Catch your breath."

He sits, heavily, half-falling back onto the couch. The adrenaline's wearing off, leaving him cold and shaky, and he pulls on his anger to warm up, keep him going. Joshua's here, and he's not dying, and technically that latter is better than the alternative. 

'Better' and 'less infuriating' are not even remotely the same thing.

"So," Joshua says after a while. "Now that that's out of the way."

Neku's fists still itch, but they've sat in silence long enough that he at least trusts his voice again. "Kind of brings me back to my previous question, actually," he manages. "Is there any reason, _besides_ you being an ass, that we can't have this conversation a week from now?"

Joshua sighs. "I was getting to that."

He's perched himself at the far end of the couch, a respectable distance between them, one knee crossed over the other and his fingers laced together neatly in front of him. It's a considerably less relaxed pose than he struck previously, and Neku has the strange sense there's something unfamiliar and uncertain humming in the air around him, just past the edge of hearing.

"The difficulty," Joshua says, "is that except when permitted by the rules of my Game, as now, I'm still forbidden all contact with the Realground. Until the Game ends."

There's something in the way he says that last that suggests it's going to be a little more than a week. Carefully, Neku asks: "And that'll be when?"

Joshua hesitates, tilting his head, measuring his words with precision. "I've been given a long-term… task," he says, slowly. "There's no time limit on it. I could choose never to attempt it, if I wished. But I only have one shot. If I make an attempt at it and succeed, I've won, and the Game ends, as do all restrictions on my movement."

"And if you fail?" Neku asks, the words feeling hollow. He has a sinking feeling he knows the answer.

Joshua's answering smile is more than a little grim. "My life's not on the line for this." He holds his hand up, timer visible. "This is how much time I've got in the Realground; there's no penalty for running it out. It's just a question of waiting until it starts up again to continue the Game. But failure at the task I've been given does mean erasure."

Neku nods slowly, letting the dull weight of this settle over him slowly. It's… better than it could be, and the fact that he's already been through the panic over the timer makes it easier to _see_ this as the better option, even as he hates the idea. He clears his throat. "What kind of task—"

But Joshua shakes his head before Neku can even finish the question. "Don't ask, Neku. I honestly can't tell you. Don't worry about it, all right?"

"Don't worry about it," Neku repeats, and lets out a hollow, humorless laugh. "Sure, Josh. Sure."

Joshua says nothing to this, only tilts his head in acknowledgement. Neku turns away to stare at the carpet, trying to find his way to any kind of coherent thought.

"You really don't want me to die," Joshua observes, softly, as if this is some kind of revelation.

"I want you to go fuck yourself." The words snap out of Neku's mouth more or less of their own accord, out of some pit of anger he's too tired to consciously feel, but now that they're out he can't really bring himself to regret them.

This is met with a kind of still, dangerous silence, but then, wonder of wonders, Joshua only says: "I suppose that's understandable."

"You think?" Neku bites out. But after a moment, wearily, he adds: "I never wanted you to die. You know I never wanted you to die. If I'd wanted you to die, I would have—"

He stops, shuts his mouth, shakes his head and closes his eyes and slumps back, leaning his head against the back of the couch. He can't even say it, can't say: _I would have pulled the trigger._

"You've had a little more time to think about it since then," Joshua says.

"Yeah, well, you're the mind-reader," Neku says dully. "Pretty sure you know exactly what I've thought."

"Hm." There's no confirmation in the sound, but no denial, either.

When the silence has stretched out too long, Neku says: "Joshua, why the hell are you here?"

"I told you," Joshua says. "Because I wanted to see you."

"Why are you really here?"

This receives no response.

"I'm serious," Neku says. "I don't—"

"After tonight I won't be back to the Realground for another year."

Neku stops, opens his eyes, lifts his head grudgingly, and gives Joshua a long, hard look. Joshua doesn't return it; he's looking down at his hands with a curiously blank expression, his gaze introspective. "A year?"

"Terms of the Game," Joshua says, and his voice is calm, steady, as if this is all normal. "One night a year in the Realground—to attempt my assigned task if I so choose, or to do as I like if not. The rest—" He shrugs and falls silent.

A year. 

The thought sinks in like cold water trickling down through rock, and Neku's not sure if it's about to drown him or give him a new lease on life. A year. Joshua's here tonight, and then he's… gone again. For a year.

All he can find to say is: "Oh."

"And there," Joshua says, "we reach the reason this conversation was tonight or nothing. As unpleasant as the timing may have been, I didn't think it was really a good idea to wait for another whole year for us to sit down and talk."

"Yeah," Neku manages, and then, "no. No, you were… probably right about that."

"It's boringly traditional of them." Joshua leans back, stretching his arms along the back of the couch. He gives Neku a sidelong glance, and one corner of his mouth twitches upward, sly and mischevious. "One night a year away from my duties. What do you think of that? I'm a regular modern-day Orihime."

Neku can't help the way his shoulders stiffen, can't help staring at Joshua a little harder, but there's only the usual smirk there, devilish and daring, no indication the comment's anything more than a tease. Before he can stop himself Neku pushes back to his feet, angry at the small sharp pang that stabs into his chest as he turns away. Orihime, weaver princess of the gods. Given just one night a year by her father to leave her duties, so she could visit the man she…

…Yeah. Right.

_You don't get to show up now, like this, and pretend this is some kind of love story, Joshua._

As if Joshua would ever cast himself in that role in earnest. Play the part, maybe, if he thought it was entertaining, but nothing more.

Neku could kick himself. _You're the mind reader. You know exactly what I've been thinking._ He said it himself, and now—no. It's not any kind of roundabout confession, it's just Joshua being Joshua, and Neku has to note that the whole _quit trying to control the damn conversation_ thing was listened to for exactly no time at all. Because this is the thing about talking to Joshua: if everyone else is flailing to keep their balance, he thinks it means he's winning.

And so Neku puts as much sardonic disdain in his tone as he can, and paces over to stare out the window at the streetlights below, and hopes that his expression isn't visible to Joshua's psychic powers right now. "Princess? Suits you, but you better not be calling me a cowherd."

Joshua laughs, light and cutting. "I didn't say it was a perfect comparison. You never even looked good in D+B."

Neku lets out a tired scoff, shakes his head, and stays where he is. There's no point in saying anything. Joshua's going to go on being Joshua, and there will be answers to nothing and snide comebacks to everything. And then the timer will run down and he'll be gone. 

Only to come back and repeat the whole damn song and dance next year, apparently. Joy. 

At least Neku will have warning for that one, he thinks. He can mark his calendar. Maybe book tickets back to Paris, plan to spend the night painting the best damn mural the fifteenth arrondisement has ever seen.

There's a sigh from Joshua, and then he's off the couch and standing just behind Neku, not quite stepping level with him but craning his neck to peer around at the side of Neku's face. "You still there?"

Neku glances sidelong at him and then away again, and says nothing. Joshua leans a little further, and Neku turns his face away, pointedly. 

There's a moment of tension, of invisible boundaries pressed too close: Joshua holding his inquisitive pose, Neku stolidly standing his ground but suddenly acutely conscious of the _presence_ that radiates around Joshua like a halo of humming electricity, pushing just an inch too far into Neku's space and making his skin prickle with goosebumps—

—And then Joshua rocks back, clears his throat, and speaks again, his tone quieter and more subdued. "Look, for whatever it's worth, Neku, what happened with Vaugirard's Composer—"

And Neku is abruptly, one hundred percent _done,_ his final shreds of patience evaporating. If Joshua genuinely thinks he can explain that situation away, if Joshua thinks any words at this point would be worth anything at all, he's… Neku doesn't even know what he is, but Neku's done with it. "Don't," he says. "Just _stop talking,_ Josh."

A not-quite-silent huff. There's a faint rustle of cloth as Joshua retreats to the couch and sits back down, and then silence. Even without looking at him Neku knows his pose: arms crossed over his chest, head tilted, mouth set in a sullen twist. Joshua barely needs to talk; his body language fills up the space all on its own, and the inescapable awareness of it, of _him,_ itches at the back of Neku's neck. 

He ignores it until he can't anymore, until he can feel a low, frustrated growl building deep in his throat. Then he thinks: _hell with it._

He spins on his heel and heads for the door.

Joshua's voice is carefully neutral. "Where are you going?"

Neku reaches for his sneakers. He didn't untie them when he took them off and he doesn't bother to do so as he pulls them back on, wrestling them over his heels. Shiki would give him a lecture about it under normal circumstances, but he thinks at the present moment even she'd approve of the expediency. "Out," he says. "I need some air." He pauses, hand on the doorknob, and adds, "You follow me, and…" But it's Joshua. There's nothing Neku can say, no threat he can make, that Joshua can't laugh off. "Just don't fucking follow me," he says.

"Are you coming back?" Joshua asks as Neku opens the door.

"We're just gonna have to find out, aren't we?" Neku snaps, and the door clicks shut behind him.

* * *

The nighttime air is cold in Neku's lungs as he steps out onto the sidewalk, and a light rain mists his face. He doesn't mind either, just now; it's like taking a breath of reality, and washing away a surreal and uneasy dream.

There's a convenience store a few minutes' walk away that's open all night. A cup of coffee will help clear his head, and he can grab some instant noodles and things to get him through the next day or two, until he gets around to refilling his cupboard and refrigerator.

It occurs to him that implicit in this plan is the assumption that he's staying. When he walked out of his apartment he genuinely wasn't sure; here on the street five minutes later, it seems inevitable.

He's not sure what to make of that, not sure at all how he feels about it.

He pulls his phone out and looks at the messenger app. There's a little circle flashing next to Rhyme's name: _currently active._ He swallows and opens up his contact list.

"Neku?" Rhyme's voice is alert. "Hi. Are you home?"

"I'm… back in Shibuya." For a dizzy moment, he's unsure if that means yes or no. "Sorry, I know it's late. Listen, Rhyme, I…" He stops. This phone call seemed like a sensible idea when he tapped the button fifteen seconds ago, but now that he's here he has no idea how to start. "How's Piglet?"

"Piglet's good!" they say. "I mean, Piglet's fine. _Good_ is relative, she got hold of a roll of toilet paper this afternoon, but she's incredibly pleased with herself, so what can you do? Cats are cats, right?" A pause. "Are _you_ okay, Neku?"

"I'm…" He swallows the automatic _fine,_ thinks about this question, and lets out a shaky breath. "No. I don't think so."

"Okay." It's probably having Beat for a brother, Neku thinks, that's given Rhyme the ability to sound so placid and calm when other people are in crisis. They've had a lot of practice over the years. "What's up?"

"I…" Breathe. He turns his face up to feel the fine spray of the rain. "I came home to unexpected company in my apartment. Old… acquaintance. I'm a little shaken up right now."

"It's midnight. What kind of old—" A long pause, and then very softly: "Oh, Neku."

He swallows a lump in his throat at the understanding in their tone, and fuck, was it something in his voice? Is he screaming: _Hey, there's a god of death sitting on the couch in my apartment_ to the entire world, without even knowing it, just by opening his mouth? "The one and only," he manages.

"Okay," Rhyme says, and their voice is brisk and level, steady. "Talk to me. Where are you? Is he there right now? Is he, um—" A pause, and Neku thinks he can hear them searching for a tactful way to ask before realizing there isn't one. "Armed?"

"I'm—I left. Walking down to the shop on the corner. He…" Neku squeezes his eyes shut. "He let me, I guess." The word _let_ tastes bitter on his tongue, but best to say it for what it is, look at it head on: if Joshua had decided to stop him from leaving his apartment, he probably wouldn't have been able to leave. "I told him not to follow me. I don't think he's followed me. If he had a gun, I didn't—" But he can't finish that sentence, because what the hell even _is_ his life? When he trusts his voice not to shake, he adds, feeling blank about it, "I punched him in the face."

"Oh," Rhyme says, sounding only slightly taken aback at this. "Good for you. How did that go?"

"Well, I'm still alive." And that too is best said bluntly, even if he wishes he could swallow the glib words back as soon as they're out. _Still alive_ is, in and of itself, probably a best-case scenario. Nothing about this night feels like a best-case anything, but it's what he's got. Another breath, and he admits grudgingly, "He took it pretty well. He sort of made a joke out of it, but he seemed to realize he had it coming."

"Good," Rhyme says. "I mean, for certain definitions of 'good.'"

"Yeah."

A brief hesitation. "If you need a place to crash, Neku, you know you're welcome over here. If you're… if you're staying in town."

They don't quite make it a question. Neku stares into the rain for a moment, watches it sparkle in the streetlights. Joshua's here tonight, and then he's going to be gone for a year. At least. He doesn't think he can get into that with Rhyme, doesn't think he can get out the words: _Also there's a Game involved, apparently._ "I'm staying," he says into the quiet. "Trust me, it's pretty tempting to turn around and walk out right about now, but I'm staying."

"Okay," Rhyme says. "Your call."

He chews on the inside of his lip, and asks the question that's really gnawing at him. "Am I stupid to be making it?"

There's a ponderous silence on the other side of the line, and from Shiki or Beat that would feel like an answer in itself. Neku thinks Rhyme's really thinking about it, and he thinks that's one reason he's on the phone with Rhyme and not the other two right now.

"Neku, I don't have a nice saying for this one," they say at last. "I don't think I have an answer that doesn't sound terrible, honestly."

He laughs in spite of himself. "I'm having a pretty terrible night, Rhyme. I promise you, talking to you isn't going to make it worse."

"Hah. Fair enough." But they hesitate. "Okay. First off, it's not that he's not dangerous. You know he's dangerous. But in his case I'm not sure that worrying about that is actually going to gain you anything. Listen, if he weren't what he is, then I'd be the first person telling you to get off the phone with me and—and call the police or something—"

Neku winces.

"But he _is_ what he is," Rhyme says. "I mean, say you did decide you were leaving. If he wanted to stop you, if he really wanted to stop you, what would happen?" They don't wait for an answer to that; they and he both know the answer already. "If he's going to be trouble, he's going to be trouble, and there's probably nothing you can do about it." 

It's the most implacable summary anyone could have given of the situation, and Neku's breath leaves him in a shaky rush. "Yeah."

"And then again, he might not be," Rhyme adds quietly. "And whatever he does is on him, it's not on you, and you can't go shaping your whole life around something you can't stop. If I did that—" a sudden note of wry humor enters their voice—"I'd never cross the street again, and that wouldn't exactly work well in this town. So… I know Beat would shout at me for saying this, but honestly? I think, under the circumstances, you should do whatever you want. If you _want_ to stay, then stay. I don't think that's stupid."

They're both silent for a moment.

"That probably wasn't encouraging," Rhyme says ruefully. "Sorry."

"No, it—" Neku shuts his eyes. "It was honest. If you tried to be encouraging right now, I'm not sure I'd believe you. As is, it…" He opens his eyes again, remembers looking out the window on the plane, looking for city lights. _Time to stop looking for what's not there, and deal with what is._

He wants to stay. He's not sure what else he wants—apart from punching Joshua at least once more, possibly—but he wants to stay.

"I needed to hear someone else say it, I think," he says. "Thanks, Rhyme."

They give a small, sad laugh. "Sure. And I meant it about coming over here, you know. Give me the word and I'll get the couch ready."

"Thanks," Neku says again. Beat would kill him, if he ever put Rhyme between himself and Joshua, but that's mostly a reflexive thought; there are risks Neku's willing to take and risks he has no right to, and that one… he would put the gun to his own head, first. "That means a lot, Rhyme."

"You're not going to, are you," they say.

"No," he says. "But it does mean a lot. Thank you."

"Call me again, after?" they say. "If you can. I'd like to know you're not dead. Or a squirrel."

He lets out a tired, almost-silent chuckle at this, because what else is there to do? "I will," he says. "I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief note in case folks are unfamiliar with the legend of Orihime and Hikoboshi:
> 
> Orihime is the weaver princess, daughter of the Sky King, who wove beautiful clothing for the gods. She fell in love with the cowherd Hikoboshi, and the two became so enraptured with one another that they completely abandoned their work. At this, Orihime's father grew angry and forbade them to see each other, and separated them on opposite sides of the river of the Milky Way. However, Orihime mourned the loss of her beloved so bitterly that at last her father took pity, and granted the two a single night each year to meet. In Japan, Tanabata festivals are held every summer to celebrate their reunion.
> 
> How sincere Joshua is being in comparing his circumstances to those of Orihime is, perhaps, an open question.


End file.
